


How to Delete Yourself

by morioriohno



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (hehe brainWASHing), Angst, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Psychological Torture, RvB Big Bang, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Unhappy Ending, canon compliant until end of Season 13, if you don't want angst then you may be in the wrong place, ill stop now these are supposed to be vaguely serious, um
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:37:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 120,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morioriohno/pseuds/morioriohno
Summary: And you thought the war was over.It's not. After countless letdowns and no end in sight, Agent Washington will do anything to end it—even if it means sacrificing himself and Epsilon to the Chairman to let the Reds and Blues get away. Little does he know, Hargrove has big plans for him. With the help of an unexpected ally, Wash tries to escape, but Hargrove has plans for that, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

****...

 

_"Wash!"_  

Oh, thank god.

Amid the hell of gunfire and wartime that surrounds him from all sides, Agent Washington suddenly feels a kind of relief that is rarely associated with the battlefield. It's still tainted by the tension of war, of course—but the second the voice is in his helmet, the tightness in his shoulders and his neck eases off to a bearable tug, and suddenly breath doesn't seem so hard to come by.

Still, the remaining tension reminds him of the guns currently locked onto his position. He waits a moment and then vaults behind a nearby rock as machine gun bullets pepper where he'd been standing—his hand is up to his helmet radio immediately, pressing the speaker closer to his ear to drown out the gunfire.

"Tucker—"

_"Locus and Felix are alive, and they're here!"_

" _What?!_ " The relief at hearing back from his teammate disappears immediately, the tightness in his muscles returning with a vengeance. He almost pulls the trigger of his rifle in surprise, but manages to catch himself before he can do so.

At first, Wash thinks it's a joke. It has to be, right? After all, dropping a _fucking spaceship_ on someone is usually considered fatal. Even Wash himself can still hear the residual humming noise in his ears, the after effects of being so close to where the Tartarus had crashed. Carolina's bubble shield is the only reason he survived—and if he'd experienced the event without her protection, he'd have died right there and he knows it. But Locus and Felix hadn't had her shield. And being _alive_? This has to be a sick, sick joke on Tucker's part.

Then again, Tucker isn't one to make jokes about those two. Not since they turned the people of Chorus against each other. Not since they split up the Reds and Blues, and let them all think their friends and teammates were dead or prisoners of the other side. Not since Wash and the rest of them were thrown into this conflict with no choice in the matter.

Not since Felix stabbed him.

Tucker doesn't know _how_ to joke about the mercenaries.

This puts the situation in an entirely different light when Tucker's voice crackles in over the radio again. This is no joke. He's whispering—they must be close. _"Holy fuck, man, is that all the advice I get?! We need he—"_

"WASH!"

Carolina's shout of warning distracts Wash from the call, and once again he has to abandon his hiding spot as the Mantis droid locks all systems on his position. Why is it only chasing _him_? No, wait, that doesn't matter. All he knows is that, unlike the _last_ Mantis he'd acquainted himself with, this one is perfectly ready to kill him. He makes it out just as it fires a round of missiles that completely obliterates the rock—as well as the other three soldiers who were hiding with him.

_Dammit._

The crippling stab of guilt is impossible to avoid. But the war goes on.

Wash signals Carolina that he's alright, then takes a tight breath and turns on his radio again.

"Tucker, I hate to say it, but...you're on your own."

" _But—"_

He closes his eyes when he speaks. "The Mantis is tearing the army apart, Tucker, they can't handle it alone. Carolina and I have to take care of it or they're going to die trying."

_"...Wash, come on, don't_ —"

"I believe in you. _All_ of you," he adds firmly, refusing to let Tucker give him a reason to believe otherwise. "You can do this."

He cuts off the recording and turns his gun on the pirates alongside the Mantis, shouting orders to the nearby soldiers to fall back as Carolina approaches the droid empty-handed. Half of him waits expectantly for someone on the other end of his radio to fight him. Tucker, Sarge, he could care less who exactly, but _somebody_. That's what the Reds and Blues are good at, refusing to agree. But there's no fight, no argument. Nobody responds.

Somehow, Wash knows that's a good thing—and not for the first time in his life, he forces himself to ignore his worry and focus on the fight.

...

They did it.

He has no fucking _clue_ how they did it, but they did. He knows because, amid the sound of Carolina tearing apart the Mantis's hull with her _bare hands_ , and in between the bursts of sporadic gunfire, he can hear Epsilon's grating voice. In the upper-right hand corner of his HUD he can see the AI's avatar as he details the crimes of Malcolm Hargrove and the injustices of war on Chorus. The best part is, it's not just there—he can hear and see it in ultra-triple-stereo, because it seems as though every device on the whole _planet_ with a speaker or a screen is playing the message at the same time. Every pirate stops moving, shocked into silence. And at the same time, over his radio, he can hear hundreds of soldiers crying and shouting and laughing as they all come to the sudden realization that the war is over.

Of course, the people of Chorus aren't the only ones rejoicing. Carolina lets out a well-deserved shout of victory as she jumps down from atop the droid's sparking hull, shooting her pistol into the air a couple times to follow the crowd's example. Over the radio, the Reds and Blues are all shouting their excitement in one way or another, their voices coming in in fragmented but discernible bursts of laughter or pride. And Wash, well, he hasn't smiled this genuinely in a while.

Epsilon's message ends with a few well-placed swears, unnecessary but not unexpected, and then Wash's HUD returns to normal. If they got the message through, then that means they defeated the mercs. Locus and Felix are dead, and Chorus has won. Now this whole thing is over, and the UNSC can come in to pick up the pieces, and Wash and Carolina and all of their friends can go _home—_ or at least, somewhere that can become one.

Wash has never been prouder.

"They actually did it," Carolina says as she lays a hand on his shoulder. If he didn't know better, he'd say there's actually a spring in her step. Disregarding the breathlessness in her voice, she sounds happier than he's ever heard her before.

To be fair, he didn't doubt them, not for a second—but he doesn't voice it, because he's sure that somewhere under that whole Agent Carolina mystique exterior, she trusted them too. She wouldn't be allowing herself to relax now otherwise.

Kimball's voice comes in clear over the radio, the hope in it a refreshing change of pace from the usual cold determination. "I can't believe it. We're picking up a slipspace rupture, a ship's already on its way!"

That's too fast.

The smile falls from his face before he can catch it. The UNSC would at least attempt to establish contact before sending a ship to help, so they can figure out exactly what needs to be sent. But even if they were to ignore protocol and just send a ship anyway, at this distance from headquarters, it would take them a much longer time to get to Chorus, a planet on the edge of colonized space. No UNSC ship can _possibly_ arrive this soon.

Wash looks to Carolina, wondering if she's thinking the same thing as him, and is immediately dismayed when he sees her. She's gone rigid, her hands clenched at her sides as she stares at the sky like divine judgement is preparing to rain down on the unsuspecting army. Wash has to be right, which is terrible, because he doesn't want to be.

And then, every speaker on Chorus booms with a single sentence—

_"You have made a terrible mistake."_

All celebration stops.

"It's Hargrove," Carolina growls—which seems pointless, because the voice is unforgettable and Wash knows who it is long before she says so. Her stance has returned to the usual, battle-ready and full of hate. "The Chairman's here."

A ship appears in the cloudy sky above, and Wash recognizes the Charon flagship on sight. Dammit, it was so stupidly _naive_ of him to think this would end without any retaliation from the Chairman! He's worked for Hargrove before—and if anything has stuck with him since that time, it's that Hargrove will always try to finish what he starts.

When the Mantis droids slam down onto the ground from orbit and immediately turn their guns on any human that moves, friendly or otherwise, Wash isn't even surprised. Stupid, _stupid_. He should've seen this coming from a million miles away.

"Everyone, take cover!" he shouts, leading the stunned soldiers as far away from the droids as possible. Suddenly screams return to the battlefield, and the victory of minutes before is long forgotten as wave after wave of soldiers continues to fall. Even Carolina has the common sense not to attack this many enemies without a plan, instead following right behind Wash towards the temple.

_"You just couldn't do it, could you? You couldn't lay down and die,"_ the Chairman hisses. _"Well, if I'm going down, I'm taking you all with me!"_

Carolina is on the radio with Epsilon, frantically explaining the situation to him, for whatever good that may do. Maybe that AI brain of his can figure out a solution before this becomes a bloodbath.

"— _if we shut them all down at once. We override their controls. From the source."_

Jesus. That idea has the words "suicide mission" written all over it, no matter who's trying it. "Wait, Epsilon—"

"Do it. Just be careful," Carolina warns, cutting him off with a glare.

_"Oh, when am I ever not?"_

Epsilon signs off, and Carolina signals Wash to join her. After a tense moment, he storms to her side. "That was reckless," Wash fumes. "Faith aside—"

"We don't have a choice," she replies coldly, in some half-assed attempt to end this conversation. "Now, we have to slow these things down, get time for Epsilon and the others to get to the control room—"

"Don't ignore me. Do you think they'll make it in time?"

"...I don't know," she says, the slightest of edges in her voice. " _Depends_ on how long we stall. Think your EMP has enough juice to knock some of the Mantises out?"

Wash frowns—he can't even remember the last time he used his EMP unit. It's one of the few things that has stayed constant throughout his armor upgrades, he always moves it into a new suit before discarding the old. Not that he's used it very much. It's there for sentimentality, mostly, maybe a bit of precaution. Frankly, he's surprised that Carolina knows it exists. "Maybe? How many androids are we talking about?"

"As many as possible. I'll see what I can do with the ones by Kimball, you focus on the ones on the other side of the temple. Once Epsilon shuts the rest of them down, this pointless war will be over."

_Once._ He notices the distinct lack of doubt in her choice of words, but doesn't comment. "Right. Meet back here in ten minutes?"

She nods and then sprints off in the opposite direction.

_Okay,_ he breathes. The readout of his EMP, a miniscule number in a corner of his HUD that he hasn't looked at in years, seems...acceptable, considering that the unit hasn't been maintained or upgraded since Freelancer. Besides, this shouldn't be very heavy use of the upper limits of the unit. He just has to take out the Mantises by the west entrance at close range. If he can find a way to get close without getting swiss-cheesed, that should be fine. All he needs is cover.

An idea, not even a remotely pleasant one but an idea nonetheless, begins to form. Wash runs to the side of a fallen Fed and silently apologizes as he slides off one of his own gloves and takes a corresponding one from the Fed's armor. After testing and manually recalibrating the tech for a minute, he's able to conjure up a working light shield from the new equipment without draining too much power from the EMP.

_Awesome, huh? Got this baby off a dead Fed soldier._

He shakes out Felix's words before they can take too much root in his head. He's nothing like that asshole—doing something that Felix had done doesn't change that. Nothing like Felix, nothing like Locus. He won't let them get the better of him from beyond the grave. Thankfully, he spots a trio of droids nearing his location and decides to put his equipment to the test before he can get too distracted by how cold the Fed's hands had felt.

"Everyone with valuable tech, get away from the Mantises!" he yells into the radio, and the nearby soldiers back away to a distance that's hopefully out of range. The light shield activates just as he dashes out from behind his hiding spot and makes a beeline straight for the nearest droid. Thankfully, the shield holds up—but when one of the others primes a missile, Wash dives back behind solid cover and waits for the explosion before running out again.

The smoke and dust from the explosion helps immensely, and he's able to quickly get into the middle of the three droids before they can make heads or tails of their thermal scanners. He raises his hand up, lowers the light shield, and activates the EMP, slamming his hand back into the ground.

A pulse of blue light and electricity crackles through his armor and explodes outwards, ripping through the delicate machinery in the androids and simultaneously deactivating all three. He does his best to grit his teeth and ignore the fact that, with the Fed's gauntlet instead of his _own_ armor, the circuit's not as effective and a small portion of the electricity is entering his body instead of being used. Instead, he focuses on getting back to his feet as the sparking remains fall to the ground around him—not that he has any time to celebrate before another pair of androids catch sight of him and start to work their way over.

He does the math quickly: there's enough juice left for about six more pulses, provided he uses the light shield sparsely. He's supposed to meet Carolina in about eight minutes, but he doubts they'll both make it to their rendezvous on time. He might as well just work his way through as many droids as possible and save as many people as he can while making his way back to where he was.

From that point on, Wash is in soldier mode. He barely thinks as he moves, every dodge becoming a reflex, every bullet an extension of himself, every choice an obvious one. Only the light shield requires any sort of conscious thought, and even then he's already getting used to it. He loses count of how many droids he's dropped after he hits a dozen, and he loses count of how many people he's saved after blocking a bullet for number 83.

Compared to how many droids are still active and how many people are still dying, it's not much. But it's something.

At long last, Epsilon's voice comes in over the radio. _"Alright, we're in."_

_"Good work,"_ Carolina replies, strained but sincere. From what Wash can tell, she's having slightly more trouble with the droids than he is, seeing as she's simultaneously running most of her equipment without Epsilon's assistance—but there's no sense of fatigue in her voice, which can't be said for himself. There's only so many times he can play the acrobat and dodge bullets and mildly electrocute himself before losing his edge.

_"It won't be long before they realize we're on board, so we'd better get going. Carolina, Wash, you guys just focus on staying alive, okay?"_

"Already on it," he grumbles, putting a bullet through the head of a pirate who was about to jump one of the other New Republic soldiers. Apparently, the pirates don't realize that they're no longer fighting the Chorus armies—the Mantises are killing _everyone_ , enemy or not. They might as well just try to help. Or die. Either one seems fair, considering who these people are and the situation they're in. Either help the fight or stay out of the way.

The fighting continues for a minute or so, both Wash and Carolina too busy following Epsilon's suggestion about staying alive to do anything else. Only the chatter of the Reds and Blues over the radio tells him that they're still okay, but that's all he needs in order to not worry about them. He should worry about _himself_ for a change. At least two bullets have managed to hit him so far, neither of them in any particularly vital or painful place but an annoyance nonetheless. On top of his healing unit draining energy and the light shield and EMP adding to the burden, he's not faring that great—but he's still moving, and that's good enough for now.

Wash knocks out another pair of droids with the last bit of juice in his EMP before he sees an explosion coming from where he last spotted Carolina.

He ducks behind solid cover immediately, shouting over the sound of gunfire. "Carolina, what's going on?!"

_"Shit! Wash, I'm getting overrun here. Circle back and meet me at the loading dock,"_ Carolina orders. _"Epsilon, we need a sit-rep."_

_"Just hang tight, C."_

_"'Hang tight' isn't a sit-rep!"_

_"Oh, relax. There were some problems with the terminal we found, but luckily F.I.L.S.S. is helping us out."_ Wash can only imagine the smug grin on Epsilon's face when the AI replies, _"We made it. Tucker and I are going in."_

Wash lets out the breath he's been holding. Good. They made it. He almost feels guilty for worrying about them—turns out, they really _can_ handle themselves.

Now for Carolina. He breaks into a jog, knowing that she'll already be waiting for him at the rendezvous. When he gets there, however, he's surprised to see that she's seated between Kimball and Dr. Grey and has taken off the upper half of her armor. It's entirely steel grey now, meaning that her camo unit must've failed. All of the removed pieces have decent chunks missing and latticework cracks running through whatever's left, plus a thick sheen of ash that also coats the rest of her suit and part of her face. From what he can see through Grey's fussing, Carolina's undersuit is torn and her entire left shoulder is covered in what looks like a plasma burn—and even though her armor isn't fully activated, her healing unit is still using so much energy that Wash can actually hear the gears inside it whirring.

The surprise slowly turns to shock when he realized that she's _panting,_ as in actually having trouble catching a breath. Agent Carolina, paragon of death-defying feats of military excellence, is having trouble sitting up straight.

At the behest of some strange urge, he takes his helmet off and tucks it under his arm. If Carolina can't wear hers, neither should he.

"Oh, _goodness,_ Wash, look at you!" Grey burbles, oblivious to Wash's dumbfounded staring. She's also coated in ash, but at least her attention is on Wash instead of the floor like Carolina's is. She seems fine. "You've got some new tech! And bullet holes. Boy, do _you_ look like you've been through the grinder."

Kimball just glances at him and mumbles some kind of hurried greeting quietly, seemingly in shock. Having victory so close at hand only to have it wrenched away has clearly taken a huge toll on her.

"How many did you take out?" Carolina asks, and Jesus, her voice is ragged. He's never seen her like this, so exhausted. Maybe she's just never _let_ anyone see her like this before.

"Maybe fourteen... Alright, I can't just ignore this, what _happened_ to you?"

"I got fifteen before my armor stalled." Apparently, she's evasive when she's injured. She flashes a blank smirk at the ground, refusing to meet his eye. "Beat you."

He ignores the lame attempt at easing his concern. "Your armor stalled."

"Yeah. When my armor enhancements ran out of power, I had to improvise. I took one of the alien guns, plugged it, and used it like a grenade. But..." She continues carefully, every word with a bite to it, like she'd rather stab herself than say it. "I...forgot to account for the blast radius. And my position. And for my reaction time sans speed unit—"

"You mean sans Epsilon," he says.

The glare she gives him stops him from taking that train of thought any further. "The blast took out four more of them, at least. Grey ducked in with a light shield and saved me before anything serious could happen. Stop worrying. I'm _fine._ "

" _Fine_?" His voice hinges on hysterical. "I saw that explosion from the other side of the temple. That thing could've blown your head off! That's the polar opposite of fine, Carolina. You're not allowed to say that word."

"This coming from _you,_ the one who's always saying he's fine," she mutters dryly. 

"Don't make this about me! Right now, I'm _actually_ fine. You're not."

"I had to do it." That's definitely in reference to the use of the makeshift bomb, which is almost funny, because there's no _goddamn_ reason that Carolina couldn't have handled that bomb with all the expertise she usually would. She's Agent Carolina. There's no 'had to'.

"No, you didn't—"

" _Wash,"_ she says tightly, looking him straight in the eyes. "I had to. Kimball was there, Grey was there, the Feds and the News were all there—behind me, waiting for me to do something, to help somehow. You were on the other side of the temple. If I didn't do something, nobody would be there to pick up my slack, and we'd all be dead now. What's the point of our guys risking their lives up there when there's nobody left down here to save?"

When he looks a little deeper into her eyes, he's shocked to see that the last question isn't rhetorical. She's really asking him for an answer, as to why she had to let them go, and why _they_ had to do it, why not anybody else, why their friends.

Wash realizes right there that she's as terrified as he is. She's just as worried about losing them. She's probably counting the seconds too—the moments until every single one of their friends is back and normal and _safe_.

He doesn't say anything to answer her question, and the stillness that follows is unusually warm and welcome. The quiet feels a bit like a mutual understanding to him, like they've both caught onto some feeling of togetherness that isn't usually there. It's the closest he's felt to being her equal in a while.

Suddenly he notices that the battlefield is silent.

It can't be. He stumbles out into the open and looks out over the troops, fighting the ridiculous urge to grin when he realizes that every remaining Mantis is slumped over in the dormant position. Kimball follows close behind him with a new energy in every step, her smile growing wider and wider as she realizes what she's looking at.

They did it.

He doesn't know how they fucking did it _again, twice in a row on the same goddamn day_ , but they did. The Reds and the Blues pulled through. And this time, it will stick. The soldiers who aren't frozen in shock are already cheering and running up to the Mantises, throwing grenades or ripping wires to render them fully inoperable. Everyone breathes for the first time in what has probably been years.

The war's over for Chorus. These kids can go back to just that—being kids. Kimball has seen the last of false hope.

"Congrats. You guys did it," Wash says into the helmet in his hands, letting that grin start to work its way onto his face. It wasn't easy, but they made it. He deserves a rare smile.

A light flashes from inside the helmet, and he turns it so he can see the words _< <PRIVATE TRANSMISSION>> _blinking on the screen—along with the callsigns for all the Reds, Blues, Carolina, and himself. That's odd. 

_"Ye---ally did, saved Chorus, beat-----ad guys."_ Epsilon's voice comes in brisk and in pieces, but Wash doesn't have to hear it all to know that he's not celebrating. _"S---this a bad time---ell you we're fucked?"_

... 

God _damnit_.

Something's wrong. Something's very wrong. Epsilon, as always, can't get to the point without making some kind of vitriolic comment—but even so, there's no way to _positively_ interpret the words _"We're fucked"_. Wash already feels himself going rigid with anxiety, worry gnawing at his insides. Epsilon keeps on talking and the signal breaks up every few seconds, but he's not sure if it's the connection or if Epsilon's having as bad a reaction to this situation as he is.

He sprints back to Carolina and the others, his helmet already jammed back in place. She's somehow back on her feet, despite the fact that Grey is frantically listing off all the reasons she shouldn't be.

"Epsilon, repeat," Carolina orders, fiddling with her somehow-untouched helmet radio. "You're breaking up."

_"Ca--ina, we nee----raction!"_ Epsilon shrills, the static only making his urgency even more pronounced.

Extraction. They're trapped. They made it, but now Hargrove's forces have them pinned down aboard the Staff of Charon.

_Fuck._

She's already attempting to put her armor back on, her persistence working wonders on the armor's durability. Somehow it all stays in one piece as she locks her helmet back in place. "Roger that. We'll fire up the Pelicans and be there in a few minutes."

There's silence for a moment too long.

_"We----ot have a f---minutes,"_ Simmons says quietly.

Carolina falters at the same time that Wash forgets how to breathe. 

There's no way to mishear that. There's no way to pretend that they're not all thinking it now. No way to act like everything will be fine after that.

_They may not have a few minutes._

For a moment, Wash wonders why the world has stopped moving. He wonders why time slows, why Carolina doesn't reply, why everyone in the background is still celebrating this stupid war being over when all of their friends are stuck in hell with no way to get back. Why he has to lose—

Something clicks in a jarring way.

_No._

_No more losing._

_I'm not going to accept that._

_They're going to make it if I have to drag them off the ship myself._

_I'm not going to lose another family._

"We're coming anyway," he angrily snaps, moving the world when nobody else does. His words jolt Carolina back to reality. "Carolina, go find us a pilot."

"Wash, let me—"

"No." He whirls around on her and, God help them both, she visibly flinches. "You're in no condition to lead anything right now! Find a ship, find a pilot, wait for me. _Go_."

Carolina has never taken an order from Wash before—probably because Wash has never _dared_ give her one. That's why it's almost impossible to believe when she dons her helmet, says, "Yes, sir," and sprints off towards the rest of the troops.

He stares after her for a moment, trying to make sense of how that had worked. Maybe she was still recovering from the explosion and actually _agreed_ that she wasn't in a leadership kind of place right now. 

_"Wash----cutting thro---door,"_ Tucker says, dragging Wash's attention back to the right place. There's more than just a hint of worry in Tucker's voice. There's also a tough kind of adrenaline mixed in there, like he's viciously trying to stomp that worry down. _"Looks like we'r--onna hafta kic---ous ass to g----ta this!"_

Right. Wash doesn't have time to be dumbfounded. "Sounds like a plan. You guys, just focus on staying alive. Hargrove's soldiers have numbers, blinding loyalty, and a good sense of the terrain, but you've got better weaponry and mobility on them. Use surprise to your advantage. Are you in the control room?"

_"Na---more li-----ed-up trophy ro--"_

"Trophy...the comms office. Yeah, ok, I know where that is. You're on the tenth floor, back end of the ship. The only good LZ is all the way down on the third floor deck, all the way at the front. Head as far forward as you can and then start making your way down there. If you get pinned again, tell me where you are and I'll direct you."

When someone else asks him how he knows so much about the ship, he responds with a curt, "I remember. Now, get ready and be careful. I want to see _every one_ of you in the LZ."

_"--anks, Wash."_

"Don't thank me. I'm going to get you out of this," he promises, as much for them as it is for himself.

_"I know. We'l---ere,"_ Tucker replies, and then the radio goes silent. Wash chooses to believe that it's because they've turned it off to focus on fighting and completely ignores the possibility of any other reason.

_"Wash, the Pelican's ready,"_ Carolina says, still over the private channel. _"Major Brighton's flying us in. We're waiting at the ridge about a hundred meters north of you."_

Brighton. A good pilot, and one of the few adults working under Kimball. "Roger that. I'm on my way," he replies, strapping his rifle to his back and picking up a discarded alien gun that, last he remembers, works a lot like a shotgun with lasers. The more, the better, right? He's not an idiot, he knows that Carolina's still in no condition to fight. Once the Pelican reaches the Staff of Charon, it's up to Wash and only Wash to break in, clear a path to the guys, and get them out.

It's been a long while since he's had to work alone. So the more giant deadly contraptions he has on his side, the better.

He makes a move to go, but stops short when Dr. Grey pops up in front of him with a medkit over her shoulder and a bioscanner in her hand. "Ah-ah, not so fast! I'm coming with you, Agent Washington."

Alarms immediately go off in his head. "No. It's too dangerous—"

"Which is exactly why I should come!" Her voice floats down into a lower range, but still carries the joviality it always does. "Look, I know that your friends up there are in _biiiiiig_ trouble, and I know you're in a _huuuuge_ rush to go get them, but they may need some medical assistance when you find them! Plus, Carolina's not going to get better from that explosion any time soon without me. And Major Brighton may be a _medic,_ sure, but she's sure going to be busy flying your dropship."

Wash frowns. How does she know all about this? She didn't receive the transmission from Epsilon. "Dr. Grey, I—"

She raps the back of her scanner on his helmet, hard enough to make him see stars and cut him off. "Nope! No time, don't fight, let's go!"

_"Wash, what's taking you so long?!"_ Carolina shouts.

"Dammit. Okay, _fine_ ," he relents, motioning for Grey to follow him. "Let's go. Just don't let anyone see you."

She nods, and the two of them manage to sneak past the troops and make it all the way up to the ridge without being spotted. Wash has to give Grey credit—for someone who talks so much, she's excellent at being quiet. If they're spotted, not only could they be delayed, but there's a possibility of restarting a panic. As bitter as he is about being dragged into this conflict, it's still not fair to these kids, and it's even less fair to drag them into another one. Grey probably understands that. There's no sense in extending their war any longer.

Carolina's already waiting at the Pelican with the ramp down, a new set of armor stolen from another pirate and her color back to aqua. She's carrying a pair of alien guns as well, and looks to Grey as if quickly understanding why Wash is late.

The Pelican takes off the instant they're on board, a touch too fast and vertical, and Wash stumbles forward to grab onto the doorframe that leads to the cockpit. "Easy, Major!"

"Sorry, sir!" she shouts back. "Carolina told me to gun it."

"No kidding." After a glance over his shoulder at Grey as she forces Carolina to take a seat, he joins Brighton in the cockpit. He stares blankly at the control panel—hundreds of nearly identical buttons and levers and colorful flashing lights stare back at him. Jesus. It almost makes him dizzy to think about how much training people like Brighton must've gone through to understand how to fly this thing. "How long until we get there, pilot?"

"Two minutes, about thirty kilometers," she says, navigating the controls like she was made for them. "It's starting to pull up into the stratosphere, though, so you and the others will need to use the extra oxygen tanks. If your helmet comes off or there's any kind of hull breach, there won't be any air to breathe."

"Right. Keep us posted."

"You've got it, sir."

Wash exits the cockpit and returns to the back, taking a seat across from Carolina and ignoring the glare she's giving him. "We're leaving Chorus's breathable airspace, so make sure to fill out your helmets with air from the oxygen tanks before we get there."

In response, Grey merely grunts quietly. She seems more than a bit annoyed, since she's grumbling under her breath and tweaking Carolina's healing unit instead of actually treating her. They must've had some argument over Carolina's refusal to admit her injury—it's not a new topic for those two. But instead of prying, he just sets about doing the delicate task of loading the extra oxygen into his helmet storage through an external port.

"Wash," Carolina suddenly says, breaking the lull of conversation. "What happened to your gauntlet?"

Grey looks up from her work and stares at Wash's hand, her grumbling fading out. Her helmet tips upwards the slightest but towards him, and Wash can immediately tell that she's hunting for his eyes underneath the armor.

"I'm sorry, Emily," he says quietly, at a loss for anything better. He wants to tell her the name of the soldier he took it from, but realizes suddenly that in the heat of the moment he hadn't bothered to check. He puts his head in his hands, suddenly fully aware of the contrasting white and grey on his visor. "I...I'm sorry."

Grey waves it off with a little shake of her head. "Oh, it's...it's ok," she replies slowly, her usual lightheartedness strained. "I know you must've needed it, or you wouldn't have—"

She stops awkwardly and looks at Carolina, who seems thoroughly confused. "The glove comes from a Fed soldier and it's fitted with a hard light shield. It's probably the only reason that Wash is still alive right now."

"...Ah. Understood," Carolina says bleakly.

None too soon, his helmet reaches optimal air capacity, and he carefully removes the external tank and replaces it back against the wall. The three of them sit in silence for a few moments, until Carolina suddenly lets out a surprised shout and crumples over in her seat.

"Carolina!" Wash clambers to her side, worry rising as her chest heaves in discomfort. That burn must be worse than she's letting on if she's like this. He can't remember the last time she'd failed to ignore an injury. She should be in a bed, not in space.

"G-Grey," she stammers, suddenly sounding like she can't breathe. She looks through Wash as if he isn't there. "The unit, it's..."

"Let me see." Grey leaps to her feet and starts looking at Carolina's healing unit again. " _Hoo,_ boy, that's not good. One of the gears is fused, this thing's not working any—Wash, what are you doing?"

Wash is already removing the healing unit from his own suit, careful not to disturb any of the EMP's pieces beside it. "Take it. She needs it more than me," he says, holding it out to Grey. The pain from his wounds returns fresh, but slightly muted since the healing unit has already done most of its job on him. Still, every muscle aches and every bone protests the removal of the unit's effect. It's not a problem, though, he tells himself. Carolina needs it more. He's worked through worse.

Grey takes it without looking and immediately sets about removing the faulty one, thankfully not wasting time by protesting. The second the new one is in place, Carolina exhales hard and leans back against the wall. "Thanks," she says, and both the distress and the pure gratitude in her voice speak volumes to how injured she is.

He sighs. "Hey, it's no probl—"

With no warning, the ship suddenly shakes, cutting Wash off and nearly throwing him against the wall. Explosions reverberate through the walls as if they're mere inches from the hull, and Wash has to grab onto one of the seats just to remain upright. 

"Brighton, what the hell?!" he practically shrieks.

"Sorry, sir!" Brighton shouts. "We've made it, but you're going to want to get up here!"

"I'm coming. Grey, get an oxygen tank and start filling up your storage and Carolina's. It sounds like it's getting rough, I don't want you guys getting hurt if there's a breach."

He doesn't wait to see if she listens. Wash rushes to the cockpit and is startled to see the change of scenery—instead of clouds, the blackness of space is starting to bleed into the atmosphere, with the Staff of Charon in the near distance and getting closer every instant. A couple fighters are zooming towards the Pelican, their attacks just barely missing as Brighton expertly dodges every burst, but they get nearer on every pass.

"We're here," she says, veering sharply to the side as one of the fighters just narrowly avoids tearing the hull. "I can't shake these fighters, so I'll have to drop you off and circle back for the extraction. Where do you want me to drop you?"

Wash stares out at the ship, which at this point nearly takes up the entire window. He spots the planned LZ at the front of the ship, much emptier than he expected. At least Tucker and the others are drawing away Charon's attention—that ought to make Brighton's job easier.

"There. That landing deck. Circle by and I'll jump."

"Roger. Opening doors in twenty seconds." There's a beat. "Good luck, sir—I'm looking forward to bringing Chorus's heroes home."

He resists the urge to chuckle dryly. "So am I."

Wash returns to the back of the Pelican and grabs onto a rail on the wall, his free hand reaching for that alien gun he'd found. He breathes, which seems like it should be natural but for some reason isn't. Come on, Wash _. Focus_. This is his job now, it's his job to get his men out of this hellhole or die trying. Protecting them is his only priority. But for some reason, even with all the air he remembers stocking up on only moments ago, breath is so hard to come by. He grips the gun like his life depends on it. It probably does.

"Tucker," he says, trying the radio again to get his mind onto something besides the painful tightness in every muscle of his body. "What's your status?"

Nothing but static. _Fuck._

"It's no use." Carolina shakes her head. "There's a subspace jammer on board the ship, it's probably cutting off their transmissions. We have to—"

" _No,"_ he snaps. "There's no 'we' right now. You stay here and just..." Suddenly he's so damn tired of having to fight her on this. "Just _heal_ , for the love of God."

"Wash, don't—"

"You've done enough. Protect the ship so we don't get stranded."

For moment, he wonders what her expression is like under that helmet. That's the second time he's given her an order today. Before, she was probably dumbfounded. Now it's more likely to be either annoyance or genuine concern.

With a hiss, the ramp drops open over a dozen meters of dead air, and at last Carolina gives in. "...Fine. Just be careful, Wash."

"You can count on it," he says.

"And don't forget to update me on everyone's status!" Grey adds. "I want to be ready."

"I'll find a way to get a message to you."

"You'd better," Carolina says stonily. "Get them _all_ out, no exceptions." 

Somehow, it's reassuring that she's the one giving the orders again.

After a final look over his shoulder—one which he realizes too late after the fact is _awfully_ melodramatic—Wash jumps.

...

He'd really expected more trouble than this.

Freefalling isn't a new thing for Wash, but his experience still fails to lessen the jolt of thrill as the Pelican falls away and he's left tumbling in near-space. Luckily, the Staff of Charon is still far enough within the atmosphere to be subject to slight gravity—and when Wash falls, he keeps going until his gravboots lock onto the ship below him. It's jarring, landing without a roll, but rolling in space just seems like a bad idea so he'll take what he can get.

There's nothing waiting for him. He'd expected some sort of defense, anything, to keep intruders out of the ship, but the entire LZ is abandoned. Apparently, Wash isn't important enough to divert forces for. In any other case, he'd see it as an insult—instead, he just takes it as proof that his guys inside are causing a hell of a lot more trouble than Charon can handle. Pride doesn't even begin to describe it.

The Pelican tears off into the distance, heading towards the back of the ship, and thankfully the two fighters pursue. No worries there, Brighton and Carolina can handle them. Neither one of them has lasted this long on luck alone.

A countdown blinks to life in the corner of his HUD. Seven minutes' worth of air—odd, he'd expected less. Now he has a deadline. Get the Reds and Blues safely aboard the Pelican before he runs out.

With that in mind, even though he's the only person on the deck, he can't afford to be relaxed. He jogs to the airlock and attempts to get onto the access terminal, surprised when his old Freelancer codes actually work. He can access basic information, minor functions—basically, what he was allowed to use last time he was under Hargrove's employ. But there's no way for him to access the airlock. Guess the security here is better than it seems.

Come on, come on, there _has_ to be a way in. He thinks for a moment before an idea comes to mind. The guys had said something about F.I.L.S.S. before, right? She'd been helping them navigate the ship. It's safe to assume that Hargrove has repurposed her from what he found in the MoI crash—but if she remembered the Reds and Blues, it's also likely that she still remembers Wash. Maybe she can help him—and having her around would ultimately help in more ways than one.

He decides to risk precious time to find out. "F.I.L.S.S.?" he calls, hoping that the weak atmosphere in the area is enough to carry his voice. "Are you there?"

After a moment of silence, a garbled but immediately recognizable sound plays through the terminal speakers. _"Oh! Hello, Agent Washington! It has been a long time!"_

Wow. _Man_ , is that voice a throwback. He smiles despite himself. "Gotta say, I never thought I'd be talking to you again. I need your help, you got a minute?"

There's a beeping tone from the terminal that to Wash's ears almost sounds frustrated. _"Unfortunately, I am a little busy at the moment. The Chairman keeps trying to reboot me in order to reutilize the ship's internal systems, but for the moment Epsilon's program and I have him locked out."_

"Epsilon? Good, then we're on the same page. Where is he?"

_"Inconclusive."_

"I thought you said he was with you."

_"Negative. Only his programming is assisting me, not the AI itself. I am having trouble getting a lock on his physical location. Last known transmission was at 1732 hours Chorus time, corridor 10-R, in the communications office."_

Huh. That seems wrong. Wash may never fully understand Epsilon's whole tech-hopping ability, but him just flat-out disappearing can't be part of it.

_"Oh, where are my manners?"_ F.I.L.S.S. says suddenly. _"Opening airlock doors. Please, come in!"_

The airlock hisses open and Wash bolts in, feeling like an awkward houseguest as it closes behind him and opens onto the ship. There are only two guards inside, but with the alien gun he makes quick work of them. Suddenly he's concerned by how few guards are here. Originally he was proud of his guys—but if the facilities are as empty inside as they are outside, Tucker and the others must be in a ridiculous amount of trouble.

He realizes with a start that he could've just pulled up their biocoms from his own helmet ages ago, and he tries, but the signal connection to them is still strained and he doesn't get any information.

"F.I.L.S.S.," he says, bursting through the next set of doors and incapacitating another pair of guards, "I need you to give me a medical report on the Reds and Blues and lead me to their location. Any wounded?"

_"Affirmative,"_ she says, this time inside his helmet. Good idea. It's probably best not to announce his arrival to the entire ship. A blinking arrow and distance marker pops up along the upper edge of his HUD, and in the center a list of basic stats for each of the soldiers starts listing casualties. They're all alive, to his initial relief—but his breath still catches when the list keeps going, and... _God,_ and going, and going, and it grows longer every second. That's not good. That's _really_ not good. He can only read so fast.

Without warning, the timer on his HUD slips a few seconds—he's hyperventilating, isn't he. Fuck. He catches himself, ducks into a corner, and reluctantly waits for his breathing to return to normal. It's a waste of a good twenty seconds, a stupid slip-up on his part. That's just what happens when you let your emotions get the best of you.

_"...Are you all right, Wash?"_

"I'm fine," he says hollowly, forcing himself to stand up and keep going. "Can you send this info to the Pelican circling this ship?"

There's an odd pause for a moment—but it's long enough that F.I.L.S.S.'s so-called "bullshit meter" comes to mind. She probably sees right through him. Hell, she's probably already looked at his biocoms and come to the completely accurate conclusion that Agent Washington is the exact polar opposite of fine.

"If you want to say something, say it."

_"Very well. Under normal circumstances and considering your...delicate condition, I would recommend you use the air onboard this ship as opposed to your personal supply. However, the Chairman will most likely disengage all non-crucial air locks and evacuate all floors with enemy combatants should he break into my program. Seeing as he could break in at any moment and you are not in a sealed area, it is best to keep your helmet on."_

He frowns. "Why would he do that?"

_"Wash, he hates all of you_ very _much. To him, losing hundreds of his workers is an acceptable loss, so long as you all die as well."_

Wow. Well, that certainly doesn't make him feel any better. Good to know that Hargrove is still as much of an asshole as he remembers. "F.I.L.S.S., you scare me sometimes. Just stick to helping us all get out of this hellhole."

_"Unfortunately, I doubt that I can be of help for much longer. I am losing control of my fringe systems as we speak. As for sending that message to your dropship, comms are still inoperable. There is little time."_

"Well, then, give me a sit-rep before you're gone. If comms are still down, I need to know what I'm going into."

_"Gladly. The group was moving rather quickly along your suggested route until Captain Caboose was incapacitated. Private Dufresne then dropped out of the fight to administer emergency treatment, and the result was a major speed reduction. At this rate, I estimate three minutes before they are overrun and either captured or killed."_

He can't think of anything to say to that. Trying not to think about it too hard, he minimizes the list of casualties and focuses on moving forward. They're all alive _now_ , that's what matters. If they're all alive, he can get them all out, and then Grey can fix whatever's broken.

_"Agent Washington,"_ she says suddenly, " _they are now directly above you on the eighth floor, but they are moving in the wrong direction. I recommend taking the service elevator on your left to the sixth floor and then taking the stairwell up to intercept them."_

"Why not just take the elevator up all the way?"

_"The upper service car was rendered inoperable by Captain Tucker in his effort to free Captain Caboose from where his leg was caught. All soldiers were forced to disembark, and as a result, there is still a service car stuck there. The remaining car for the lower levels will go no further than the sixth floor."_

Oh, gosh. Poor Caboose. Not for the first time, Wash wishes he'd gotten here faster. Or, even better, that he had just come with them in the first place. That way, there would've been no problem in dealing with the wounded mercs. They would've done it the same way—but without worrying that they weren't up to it, because instead of calling them he'd be right there, telling them how much he believed in them, and how much faith he had in them, and he'd be watching their backs. Then, when the possibility of going onboard the ship had come up, he would've taken their place. He'd go up here, risk his life, probably lose his life, so none of them would have to suffer the way they are now. Nobody would come to rescue him, and that'd be fine, because they'd all make it out okay.

But it's not like that now.

His heart sinks down and takes up residence somewhere alongside his gut, but he refuses to let it slow him down. He follows F.I.L.S.S.'s suggestion and ducks into the elevator, taking out the guards and quietly waiting until he reaches the sixth floor.

It's a different world up here. Soldiers and orders are everywhere, an immediate answer as to where all the security has gone. But worst of all is the fighting. It's not here, though. The sounds of violence can be heard _through_ the two floors above—and it's not the kind of violence you can hear on any old UNSC battlefield. Even through two floors of solid metal, Wash can somehow hear the vicious humming of a plasma sword.

Tucker.

_They're still here_. Wash viciously pushes his relief at that thought aside, trying instead to formulate a plan. With this many enemies everywhere, attacking alone is suicide. All he can do is sneak by and hope for the best. Luckily, he remembers most of the side paths in this area, and whatever gaps may exist in his memory are easily supplemented by the AI's guidance. He jumps from the elevator before he can be spotted and sprints down a small service hallway on his right, hoping his dark armor will allow him to blend with the shadows.

To his relief, the stairs that F.I.L.S.S. leads him to are practically empty, at least in comparison to the swarms in the main corridors outside. He empties a mag into the squad he runs into at the base of the stairs, their bodies disintegrating into ash. Good old alien tech—less enemies, _and_ his path is clear. 

At least, it is until Wash is spotted while running up past the seventh floor. He silently curses as he has to turn around, backing slowly up the stairs and switching to his rifle. The normal, human gun is just as effective at laying waste to these two-a-penny lackeys—but it also has the benefit of leaving the bodies there as an obstruction. They keep piling up, blocking the doorway until Wash can only see them from the waist-up—and with the smaller window to worry about, his aim, already damn good, improves to pretty fucking incredible.

His speed, however, drags with every passing moment. "It's that fucking Freelancer!" one of the Charon lackeys shouts, ducking away from the doorway before Wash can put a bullet through his face. Not good. He's probably calling for reinforcements. There goes surprise.

"Shit. F.I.L.S.S.!" he shouts, stealth no longer an option. "Can you seal off this stairwell?"

As if being found out isn't bad enough—his helmet radio picks up nothing but static.

"F.I.L.S.S., report!" he repeats, slamming a fist against the radio. "I need you to cordon off enemy movement in sect—" 

_"NEG---egati-ive. Primary systems have been b-br--ECURITY BREACH DETECTED. COMMENCING REBOOooo...."_

All F.I.L.S.S's markers on his HUD go red.

_Fuck._ Fully aware of how risky it is, Wash immediately reboots his helmet software and watches the world goes dark. It's a necessary yet deadly precaution. Who _knows_ if Charon can access his suit through whatever traces of data F.I.L.S.S. may have left behind—but if they end up getting into his neural interface or any of the tech he's got, he and all the others are screwed. They can't afford to lose the only backup they're going to get.

Things have just gotten a whole lot harder.

Guns are still pointed in his direction, he can hear at least that much from the echoing gunfire all around him. He fires blindly at where he knows the doorway to be, reloading from muscle memory, and raises the light shield up when a volley of bullets strikes the wall way too close to his head for comfort. Fuck, he wishes he could _see!_ Fighting blind in such a bad location is practically impossible. But removing his helmet in battle is even less of an option, so he's just gotta wait it out. His breath is loud and hammering in his ears as he waits, pressing his back to the wall with his rifle tight in hand.

When his HUD flickers back to life and reveals the grenade flying through the doorway, Wash takes the hint and all but throws himself up the stairs as the explosion seems to rock the ship. There's so much smoke in the air, he can barely see—but at least he's breathing something clean. Besides, the choking smoke is probably why the woefully under-equipped soldiers don't follow him any further.

The second he exits onto the next floor, he reaches for the alien gun and unloads into the Charon men to his right, the light shield still up on the other side. He's getting close, he knows it. F.I.L.S.S. had been directing him here, all he needs to do is wait for them and they'll—

_"Wash!"_

Wash exhales hard and closes his eyes, every one of his emotions melting into relief. The odd squeak to that one word is so ridiculously welcome, Wash has never been happier to hear it. There's a part of him that had been afraid of never hearing that voice again.

And then other voices start echoing basically the same thing—some tired and slipping in pitch, some ridiculously excited, but all with the same universal sense of relief.

"Well, _look_ who it is!"

" _Waaaaaaaash!"_

"Holy shit, he actually made it."

"I _told_ you he would!"

_"Gracias a dios."_

"What the fuck _took_ you so long?!"

Adrenaline, or maybe excitement, burns through his bones like wildfire, giving him energy once more. He knows it's stupid, unsafe, but he spins and switches sides, his gun now safely lowered and his light shield protecting him from harm. He just has to see them. He may not deserve much, but he deserves to know that he made it this far—that they _all_ made it this far.

Wash open his eyes and smiles, about to tell them how much of a fucking _relief_ it is to see them again, or maybe say something sour just to know that they'll all retort back at full force, or anything that might imply that they're all okay—but any semblance of okay dies in his throat when he sees what will probably haunt his nightmares for days.

Running towards him with Tucker's plasma sword in hand is the Meta.

****...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooo my god, I did it! I finally started posting it!
> 
> So here's the posting schedule. I'm going to do the first two chapters today (Saturday), and then from here on out I'm posting a chapter a week on Fridays, afternoonish. However, since I'm further ahead, if I end up finishing the entire thing sooner, I'll just put the rest of the chapters up.
> 
> This is my RvB Big Bang Submission, and I had so much fun writing this! (Well, not the angst stuff, it gets pretty heavy later on and all my friends now think I'm a horrible person)
> 
> Thanks to [ kyuunonana ](http://kyuunonana.tumblr.com) on tumblr, both for being awesome and doing the art portion of this!


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

...

Wash knows that his brain often makes the wrong associations in regards to his memories. In this particular situation, he knows for a fact that his brain is wrong. But that never stops it.

Instinct takes hold of his hands before logic can get a word in edgewise, throwing the alien gun aside and locking both hands around his battle rifle. Wash fires without thinking, without a plan, just holds down the trigger and keeps his aim firmly on the Meta's head.

The Meta goes from relaxed to battle-ready the second the bullets start flying. _"WHOA,_ Wash, what the _fuck?!"_ Tucker shrills. No, wait, that's not Tucker. The Meta knows how to mess with audio recordings, there's no way Wash is going to believe a word he hears. 

The Meta rolls out of the way, faster than he remembers him, but Wash moves his aim to follow. It's all wrong, though—not a single bullet hits the Meta, instead pinging off the walls behind him. His hands are shaking, he can't understand why, _why are his hands shaking?_

_He's in the snow, his hands quivering as they wrap around the chain. His muscles are on fire, and he's burning down. Something bright and red and oddly comforting leans over him, and he realizes that this battle isn't one he can win alone._

_"Here, take this," Wash says, handing the chain off to Sarge. "You know what to do."_

Somehow he empties the magazine without hitting him, not once. He needs another, he needs more ammo, but his body refuses to move. Instead his eyes dart among the Reds and Blues, looking for that telltale aqua and coming up short. Tucker's not there. But he can't be in the suit. He just can't.

The oxygen readouts on his helmet are having a seizure. They skip from four minutes down to two and then back up to seven with every uneven breath his body forces. He's fairly certain that the world continues on around them, and that it's not just him and Maine in the hallway—but when he doesn't see helmet visors staring his way, he starts to think that maybe that's not the case. Nobody drags themselves away from their fights to look at Wash, at the Meta, as both of them level their weapons at each other without pressing any further. Vaguely, Wash remembers Maine being bulkier, but the thought's drowned out by the roaring adrenaline in his skull.

"Wash, calm the fuck down!" Tucker says, and it's off, the way he screeches it. It's too real.

_"Please confirm, Agent Washington," Command seethes, and Wash curls his hands into fists as he confirms for the millionth time that Maine is and has always been the one in that goddamn suit._

"I-I don't understand," he manages, and to his horror his voice is shaking just as bad as his hands. His memories mesh seamlessly with reality, and Wash is no longer sure if he's talking to the Meta, Tucker, or Command.

And he tries to make sense of things, he really tries, tries to tell himself that maybe Hargrove just made a duplicate, that it's not the real thing—but that line of reasoning fails when he sees the two faded scuffs on the Meta's chestpiece. The mementos left over from covering up old plasma burns. Were he to look at the back of the suit, he already knows he'd find two identical exit marks.

It dawns on him, slowly, why this matters so much to him, and the part of him that isn't being ripped apart slowly shrinks until it's barely a memory. Christ, he thought he was over this. He's been telling himself that he was over this for years. But Wash has never been good at getting over things, has he? No, instead of being over it, one line plays on a loop in his head. _The Meta is supposed to be dead._

Yet here his armor stands, begging the question—who's in the suit?

Well, it _could_ be two people. Either Maine, or...

No, or nothing. He won't even allow himself to think it. He would rather Tucker be dead than hurt him like his—as terrifying and anxiety-inducing as that thought is, he's sure that it would hurt less than whatever strange cacophony of emotion Wash is feeling now.

But if it's not Tucker, then it's Maine. And that means that Maine...that Maine is somehow still alive. That he killed Tucker and stole his energy sword. So what is he doing with the Reds and Blues?

_It could just be Tucker, Wash._

No. It can't. Tucker wouldn't do this.

Wash barely registers the sting of the bullet, but his body notices and before he realizes it he's toppled over on the ground. Charon. They're still here, he turned his back on them and they took advantage. He robotically puts a hand to his shoulder and his glove comes back bloodied, stark red against a sickly white, _just like Maine when they peeled him off the road and put him in the Pelican and the red poured out from his neck, "nine shots to the throat" they said, and he was dying his partner was dying_ his partner is dead _his partner—_

"Wash," Tucker says, strained, and then there's a hand reaching for his, and he takes it blindly because _it's Maine, Maine's here, they're a team, Maine promised to fight by his side and he kept his promise, nobody can touch them, they're unstoppable, Maine's—_

" _Dead_ ," Wash chokes out, the memory shutting off as quickly as it started, and with every remaining instinct in his body he violently throws the hand off—but the Meta is steadier and faster and easily grabs him again and slams him against the wall. The pain in his shoulder flares up, the alarm for his oxygen is screaming, but Wash is too distracted to care. There's a desperate sound in his ears, almost as loud as the alarm, and Wash realizes suddenly that it's his own pathetic attempt at breathing.

"Washington, _wake the fuck up_!" Tucker shouts, and the logical part of Wash can read between the lines there, can see that Maine never stood so openly, never telegraphed his frustration with every fiber of his being so vividly that you'd have to be blind not to see it.

But the rest of him screams, no longer _Maine,_ but _Connie, Connie, Connie._

His mind races in every direction as if trying to tear itself apart. It's not Tucker in there, it can't be. It's anyone but Tucker. Tucker wouldn't do this, wouldn't wear Maine's armor, wouldn't say Connie's words, wouldn't torture Wash like this. Tucker's not that evil, he can't be.

It has to be Maine. But it's not Maine. It can't be. Maine is dead, he died at the bottom of the ocean—

_The same way those pirates were dead when you crashed a spaceship on them?_

No, no, this is all wrong, because the Meta, Maine, _whichever_ , he is undeniably dead. That armor died with him. Maine _drowned_. He watched the UNSC pull Maine's corpse up from that cliff at Sidewinder, watched the four stab wounds in his suit as they poured blood and ice water onto the snow, watched them pull off the helmet and reveal his best friend, long since dead and gone.

It has to be Tucker. It has to be Maine. It can't be both. It can't be either.

Wash has long since forgotten what his mission was when the Meta raises one hand and pops the seals on Wash's helmet, drops it, and then punches him in the face as hard as he can.

It's pathetic. It's pathetic and weak and nothing like Maine at all. But it's done with so much unbridled annoyance and frustration that Wash reels, he almost topples if not for the Meta's grip on his other side.

And as if that's not enough to convince him, the Meta reaches for his own helmet and all but rips it off and it's _Tucker_ , it's Lavernius Tucker, there's no denying the face that stares back at him.

"Wash, Christ, it's _me!"_ Tucker yells, and his mouth moves to form the words, this is no trick of engineering. "Snap out of it!"

And Wash does. The shock of seeing Tucker in the suit brings Wash back to some vague level of coherence. His mind runs through the the things he knows, the things that are important, using the face in front of him as a guide. It's Tucker. Tucker's alive. Not Maine. Maine is dead—the _Meta's_ dead. It's just the Meta's suit, but the Meta is long gone.

They have to get out of here.

Something must shift in his expression, because Tucker huffs and puts his own helmet back on. He pulls away and stands, leaving Wash on the floor.

"Fucking _Christ,"_ Tucker snaps, sounding somewhere between pissed and genuinely relieved. This time, when he holds out a hand, Wash takes it knowing exactly what he's doing. Tucker pulls Wash to his feet and takes the inactive sword in his hand, keeping it taught by his side. "I know the answer's obvious, but are you okay?"

Memories of Maine fade away, dull enough to let Wash take in the scene around him. There's a barrier around him and Tucker, around the others as well—the bubble shield, it must be Tucker's doing. He must've put it up at some point when Wash wasn't paying attention. The Meta suit is making strained noises, like it's really not handling the bubble well. Time's not on their— _time._ Oh, no. He's wasted so much of their time, hasn't he. They're probably being surrounded on all sides at this very moment, and they'd still be moving if it wasn't for this.

The rest of them edge closer to Wash, the barrier giving them all a momentary reprieve from fighting. Oddly enough, Sarge seems to be the only one who isn't visibly injured. Looking at anyone besides him forces Wash to resist the urge to look somewhere else. Grif is leaning heavily on Simmons, who's removed the armor plating on his cyborg arm, and Simmons seems to be leaning down on Grif as well—but Wash can't tell if they're leaning on each other because they're exhausted or physically hurt. Lopez's armor in some places is gone, the wires beneath sparking like hell. Tucker doesn't look outwardly injured, but something tells Wash that only the suit has kept him upright this long. Bullet marks mar the surface of his armor, and his body is held rigidly like a spring set to explode, in the way that Wash has come to recognize over time as severe stress.

Unwittingly, his eyes turn to Caboose.

Looking at him, it's easy to understand why F.I.L.S.S. had been skeptical about an escape. Caboose is by far in the worst shape out of all of them. He's laid out on the floor, his helmet is beside him, Freckles whirring almost comfortingly in hand—and even though his leg looks fine externally, Wash can still see the blood and biofoam soaking through his kevlar undersuit. Broken, at best, but crushed is much more likely. But what really fucks him up is that Caboose is still conscious, whimpering quietly as he squeezes Freckles like the gun the only thing keeping him alive. He's so clearly in pain, it takes all of Wash's willpower not to look away from the sheer agony on his face. Doc must've had to force his leg back into place so the armor could lock. Beside him, Doc has slumped his entire body over Caboose's chest, breathing heavily, but he seems okay. Donut is clutching at his own arm not very far away.

It takes him a moment to realize that they're all staring at Wash like he's come back from the dead.

Seeing everyone, eyeing him with concern visible even through what's left of their visors, brings him jarringly back the rest of the way to reality. He has a job to do. This delay is his fault. It's time to make up for it.

"I'm fine," he says as normally as he can, and he bends down to pick up his helmet and slot it back on. Slowly, details click back into place on his HUD—vitals, abysmal; comms, down; reserve oxygen, empty; team, accounted for. He focuses on those constants and numbers, almost surprised by how relieved having his HUD makes him feel.

"... _Dude_ ," Tucker says, skepticism too dull a concept to describe the sheer disbelief held in that one word. Even with his helmet on, Wash can still picture his offended expression. "Are you sure? Because I know I _asked_ you if you're okay, but I also thought you'd have the fucking decency to say no."

"I'm _fine_ ," Wash repeats, more forcefully than he intends. "Don't worry about me."

There's a respectful silence for a full half of a second before Grif raises a hand. "Um, _yeaaaah_ , so, I'm gonna have to call bullshit on that? You're, like, fifty different kinds of fucked, dude."

" _Grif,"_ Sarge mutters.

No break, then. Part of him had been hoping that they could just leave it be. If he didn't sound so venomous, Wash would think that Grif was sincerely concerned. He sighs shakily, hopes that Grif doesn't hear the shake, and focuses solely on reloading his rifle. "You can lecture me all you want later—"

"Later?" Grif practically spits. "Oh, that's funny. How the _FUCK_ are we supposed to make it to ' _later_ ' when we have to deal with this kind of bullshit _now_?!"

"What do you..." Wash falters as he realizes exactly what Grif's saying. When he'd been shooting at what he thought was the Meta, he'd missed. He'd been hitting walls. But there were no walls behind the Meta. He'd been hitting _them._ He stops reloading, the motion suddenly feeling more than a little cruel. "Oh." 

" _'Oh'?_ What, that's it?! No apology for shooting at us? You were supposed to come here to _help_ , Wash, what the _fuck!?_ You even shot Donut again, and that's just a dick fucking move!"

"I— _what?!_ " Wash whirls on said soldier, still on the floor near Caboose, still cradling his arm—and there's something about the guilty way that Donut looks away that tells him it's true. Fuck, no, _no_. Not again.

"Yeah, good job, jackass." Grif snarls angrily. "Glad to see you're on Hargrove's side again."

Grif might as well have just stabbed him in the face.

It says a lot for the rest of them when nobody comes to Wash's defense. Even Tucker, the one person here who might be closest to knowing exactly how fucked up Wash is, doesn't jump to his aid.

"No, wait! You're taking this... Look, I-I'm sorry," Wash stammers, and now that he's no longer focusing on his gun he's afraid to accidentally meet anyone's gaze. He ends up burying his attention back in his HUD, letting all of them fade out of focus. "I just—"

"You just _what?_ Look, if you're gonna tell us that you're coming to save us, and then you freak the fuck out when we need you, we at least deserve to know _why_!"

"Grif," Tucker says suddenly. "Bitch about it later. In case you havent noticed, we're _still in the middle of a fucking war zone_."

To Wash's legitimate surprise, Grif grumbles something under his breath but doesn't press any further. 

The relief Wash feels is small but palpable. "Tu—"

"And you," he adds, cutting Wash off. "Shut the fuck up, calm the fuck down, and tell us where we're going! The shield's running on empty."

It must be snowing in hell. Here he is, barely moments after a memory lapse—and yet Grif is yelling at him, and Tucker, though seemingly annoyed, is still looking to him for leadership.

He realizes for a moment just how ridiculous this situation is, and how right Tucker is to rush them. Here they are—the middle of enemy territory, surrounded on all sides by enemies, protected by a failing shield—and they're just standing around, _talking._ That's all they're doing. That's all they ever do. This is the wrong place to do it.

Wash snaps back into soldier mode, whether or not he's ready to.

"Right," he says tersely, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair before remembering that he has his helmet on. "Right, okay. How's the suit otherwise? Anything we can use?"

There's an almost visible release of tension in the hall. Apparently, Wash in soldier mode is more of a comfort than anything else that's happened today. Even Grif looks a bit less likely to strangle him.

Tucker is one of the ones who noticeably slumps over in relief. It's not much, but it's there. Still, his voice has a little too much energy. He's forcing it. "Well, there's a pretty badass speed unit! And invisibility. And Wyoming's time distortion thing, though it's basically broken. Caboose has the healing unit right now. I've basically been cutting down the assholes in the front while the Reds cover the back, but I've been trying to save the enhancements for something harder, bow chicka bow—"

"This definitely qualifies _,_ " Wash snaps before Tucker can complete that sentence. Definitely forcing it. "I need you to run ahead and clear a path while I focus on getting the group in one piece to the exit."

"...Wait, what? _Alone_?" He says it like Wash has asked him to swallow a functioning chainsaw—at least that sounds more like him.

"Yes. You and I are the best-equipped here, but I don't have speed or cloaking or anything that can take the enemy by surprise."

"Bullshit. What about that giant alien gun you've got?" Tucker asks, with a nod to the weapon at Wash's feet.

"Not enough. I only made it this far because nobody knew I was onboard. You're the only one who can do it," Wash presses.

Tucker's body language screams skepticism. "And you're sure of that?"

"Yeah—wait. What do you mean, _alone_? Where's Epsilon?" 

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, _you don't know?!_ "

"Exactly what it fucking sounds like! He's running the suit and all, but whenever I try to talk to him I always get the glowy green one." Tucker waves his fingers in a way that's oddly accurate in representing the "glowy green one" in question.

"Delta?"

"Yeah, that guy. Kind of a dick, actually."

"He's really not very helpful," Simmons mutters. "He just keeps popping out of our projectors to tell us that we're going to die."

Well, that _does_ sound like Delta. Wash sighs quietly and tries not to think any harder about where Epsilon could be. "Don't listen to him. Tucker, on my mark, drop the shield and use the speed unit to take out the soldiers blocking the stairwell, and then head down the stairs and keep the exit to the sixth floor clear. Use camouflage whenever you have to. Comms are down, so don't expect backup until we make it to you."

"What?" Tucker shakes his head. "No they're not."

"Tucker, don't—" He stops mid-sentence as he notices that his HUD is displaying all the usual radio frequencies, operating uninterrupted. "That's...that's not right. It was being jammed the last time I looked."

"Yeah, same here. But it's working now— _here, look. It works fine,"_ he says, switching to the radio. He's right. Whatever problem had been there before is gone.

" _How_...never mind." There are more important things to worry about. Wash walks to the other side of the group, between the Reds and the Charon soldiers, and starts checking the functionality of his light shield. "Keep me updated—and if you get hit too bad, come back and we'll cover you. Everyone else, get behind me and be ready to move."

"What about Caboose?" Doc says. "He can't walk. Donut and I have been carrying him, but now that his arm—"

"I can handle it," Donut assures. It doesn't take a genius to know that he's lying.

"No." Wash picks up the alien gun and holds it out for him to take. "Here. It's easier to handle one-handed, and more effective than a pistol."

Unsurprisingly, Donut takes it without comment. 

"I'll take his place," Simmons says, untangling himself from Grif and moving to Doc's side with an exaggerated flex of his arms. "Y'know, cyborg parts and all."

Grif staggers a bit without the support, but he throws the rest of his weight onto something else instead. The Meta's weapon. How he has it _again_ is beyond Wash's knowledge.

"Grif." Wash inhales sharply, struggling to look away from the devastating machine of destruction that the orange soldier is currently hobbling on like a crutch.

"What?"

"Are you good with that thing?"

Grif straightens up slightly, holding the weapon a bit more like the weapon it is. "Define ' _good_ '."

"Can you _use_ it?"

"Following a very loose definition of ' _use_ '."

"That'll have to be enough." Wash tears his eyes away from the grenade launcher and takes a quick inventory of the other weapons they've got—a varied arsenal, certainly, all stolen from Hargrove's personal storage. But it's not enough for this particular group to handle close-range combat. They've got to keep their distance. "I want you up front with Donut. Keep the path clear and follow Tucker, while Doc and Simmons carry Caboose, and the rest of us cover your asses. We have to do this right, or there's no getting out of here. For any of us."

By the end of his orders, Wash is addressing all of them. He only gives them a moment to let the gravity of his words sink in—luckily it's enough. Everyone readies their weapons wordlessly, following his orders to a T, and Wash thinks that they might actually do this. It's not enough conviction to allow for a smile, but it's the beginning of something close.

Someone puts Caboose's helmet back on, the _click-hiss_ of airtight seals reminding him of F.I.L.S.S.'s warning. "Everyone, one last thing—pressurize your suits the second you can. We're too high in the atmosphere to use external oxygen, and if Hargrove blows the hull to flush us out, we're finished."

"Right," Grif mutters. "Remember to breathe. Got it."

"I'm serious. Do it." He turns to the sound of a plasma blade activating, focusing on the sword instead of the armor. "Tucker, are you ready?"

"Nope," Tucker says, but he still drops into a running position. "On your mark, right?"

Wash nods. "Right. Everyone ready?"

There's a chorus of curses and replies that Wash decides to take as a yes.

" _NOW!_ "

The bubble drops and Tucker is gone, along with half the Charon personnel blocking the stairwell. Good old technology. More and more fall every second, whooshes of plasma cutting through the screams in an oddly satisfying way.

Bullets ring against the ground and slam into Wash's light shield as he backs away, firing his rifle with more of an emphasis on accuracy than speed. Beside him, shotgun shells hit the floor in perfect tandem with the soldiers, and something tells him that Sarge is having the time of his goddamn life.

 _"Wash, this part's clear!"_ Tucker shouts, and a quick glance over his shoulder proves that it's true. He just misses Tucker darting into the stairwell and instead watches as the remaining soldiers guarding the stairs get mown down by Grif and Donut.

"Everyone, head down to the sixth floor!" Wash holds up the shield in front of the door and manually dodges the fire coming his way, giving everyone else the time to get inside—when he hears the announcement.

 _"Please be advised,"_ F.I.L.S.S. drones, and he immediately knows something's wrong. " _Evacuating eighth floor in three—"_

Jesus Christ.

_"—two, one. Commencing evacuation."_

Wash doesn't think, just does. In what he will probably look back to as a golden moment of multitasking prowess, Wash locks his grav-boots onto the floor, slams the stairwell door shut, and pressurizes his armor, all in the space of three seconds.

The explosion to his right isn't that impressive, but the immediate effect sure as hell is. Every Charon soldier is jolted violently towards the new opening in the hull like a puppet on a chain, their bodies and screams disappearing into the void. A harsh whooshing sound fills his ears immediately, louder than the Reds and Blues and his HUD system altogether.

 _"WASH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!"_ Tucker screeches, just barely audible.

A little busy, Wash doesn't answer. His boots shriek in complaint against the floor, the gravity enhancement clearly not enough to hold him in place, and he reaches for the wall for something to hold onto—no good. Too far. The only thing he can grab is the lever that opens the door, and that's clearly not an option.

 _"I swear to fucking GOD, Wash_ — _"_

"Just keep going! I'll catch up," he says through gritted teeth. Knowing full well that it's stupid, he lifts one of his feet to take a step forward—

His gravboots choose that moment to fail spectacularly, and Wash is suddenly dragged backwards at a speed that he's fairly certain leaves his stomach behind.

Then he's no longer on the ship but tumbling down into the clouds, everything spinning and shrinking and blurred in his vision, the Reds and Blues screaming, his HUD screaming, _SUIT BREACH, SUIT BREACH._ His shoulder. Air's leaking out from the bullet wound, it's why he's spinning, why he's suddenly feeling dizzy. Or maybe that's the spinning.

"CAROLINA!" he shrieks instinctively over their shared channel. When in chaos, shouting that name has become second nature. "Back of the ship, _now_!"

She's in his radio immediately—she sounds furious, like she's just finished punching something and he's next. _"Wash, where have you—"_

"Carolina," he says as level as he can manage, which even to his own ears sounds painfully patronizing. "I am falling back to the planet, and pretty soon I'm going to be a bloody stain on someone's front lawn. _Hurry up!"_

_"Goddamn it—"_

She cuts out and Wash looks around wildly, the dropship nowhere in sight and his HUD flashing red and everyone and everything growing quieter and smaller in his view—

And then everything stops spinning abruptly and he's jolted in a direction he assumes is to the left, and he slams hard into the Pelican's bay as Carolina retracts her grappling hook.

The ramp slams shut behind him as he drags himself to his knees. Someone—Grey—hands him an oxygen tube and he plugs it into his suit, releasing a short breath as the HUD alarms slowly disappear. Grey is tugging at his armor almost immediately, probably attempting to administer treatment for his shoulder.

"Tucker, Sarge," he croaks into the radio, pawing her away. "I'm in the Pelican. Get everyone to the LZ, and be ready to run like hell."

 _"Can-do, Wash. And next time, how's about you save the flyin' lessons for the Air Force_ — _"_

 _"We're almost there anyway, you giant asshole!"_ Tucker snaps. _"Man, why you gotta be all self-sacrificial all the time?"_

 _All_ _the_ — "I didn't mean to, it was just kind of instinct," Wash stammers. 

_"Yeah, and your instinct today has been on fucking point."_

"What's that supposed to mean?" Carolina says sharply.

Wash interjects before Tucker can say anything more. "Tucker's got Maine's armor. Hargrove must've held onto it after Sidewinder."

"...Oh."

Carolina's helmet portrays no emotion, but the one word falls with the weight of a nuclear impact. She's not going to pry, he knows it—because she knew Maine too, just like he did. They were all a team. Carolina knows exactly how Wash would react in that situation, whether he wants her to or not.

He doesn't wait for her to say anything else. Wash pulls himself upright and joins Brighton in the cockpit, still talking over the radio. "We're on our way, Tucker, just...be ready. And pressurize your suits."

_"Christ, we got it the first fucking time you said it! Tucker out."_

"Wait, don't just—"

Tucker signs off entirely, leaving Wash on edge and, frankly, uncomfortable. He tries not to think about what Tucker said, but the word _instinct_ keeps playing on repeat in his head in a way that's just making him dizzier.

"Trouble with the team?" Brighton says.

"Not now, Major."

"...Right. Sorry, sir."

He returns to the back of the ship and grabs onto a handrail, eyeing Carolina warily. She's standing up without support, both of the alien guns in hand, and outwardly looks no worse for wear. Unbelievable. The healing unit probably has her on enough painkillers to take out a horse, and yet she's still standing.

"Carolina. You okay?"

Even without seeing through her visor, he can feel her eyes judgementally scanning the newfound holes in his armor. "I could say the same to you."

"It's nothing major— _don't_ give me that," he says when her hand immediately goes to the healing unit. " _I_ didn't take a bomb to the face."

She bristles a little at that. "I _didn't_ take a bomb to the face."

"Right, sorry. A bomb to the chest, much better."

He's fairly certain that her glare should be burning holes in her visor.

"Agent Washington!" Brighton shouts. "We— _fuck!_ "

An explosion rocks outside the ship, but the Pelican continues forward unhindered. After sharing a glance with Carolina, Wash pushes back to the cockpit. "What's..."

He falters upon seeing the Charon forces pouring from the ship into the LZ. There are regular lackeys in pressure suits manning turrets and weaponry, enough to make even Wash uncomfortable, but that's not the really concerning part. There's also a group of maybe a half dozen soldiers that immediately catch his eye as being a cut above the rest. They're arranged in a semicircle near the airlock, dishearteningly close and armed to the teeth.

Mercs. He can tell immediately. Not _their_ mercs, not Felix or Locus, but still bad. Wash can handle a lot on the battlefield, but he knows without a doubt that those soldiers are bad news.

"The LZ is about a thousand times hotter than it was before," Brighton grits out, as if it's not brutally obvious. "But at least they're lingering on the edge of breathable atmosphere. That's _something_."

That _is_ something. Hargrove should be hauling ass before the UNSC can reach him.

"Everyone," Wash says into the radio, trying to hide the discomfort that has swelled up without warning. "Where are you?"

 _"We're almost to the airlock!"_ Doc replies. _"How is it out there?"_

"It's not good. We're going to draw their fire—"

"We are?" Brighton mutters.

"Yes. Hargrove must've kept a few mercenaries of his own on board—without our help, those assholes will pick the guys apart."

_"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard that right. Did you say mercenaries?"_

"We'll handle it, Doc," Wash promises. "Tell Tucker to raise the bubble shield as soon as you enter the airlock, and keep it up for as long as possible. I'll radio you when it's safe to drop it. They'll go for your weak spots, so anyone with firepower or protection needs to cover Caboose."

_"Uh, yeah, sure thing. Hey, Tucker—"_

Wash ignores whatever's happening over his radio and turns back to Brighton. "Does this thing have any ammo?"

"Plenty. I made sure to grab a Pelican with loaded guns."

"Great." He taps the glass, indicating the Charon gunmen. "Target those turrets as you spin, then open up the ramp as soon as we land. Carolina and I will draw their attention from there, so switch to defensive fire once we land. We can't escape without this ship."

"Got it, sir. Hold on!"

Brighton yells and pushes the Pelican's throttle into full, and the ship swoops back down towards the deck, somehow avoiding every rocket and bullet fired their way. No wonder Brighton's survived this long—she's a goddamn prodigy. He wonders for a moment if 479er would've liked her.

He returns to the back and goes straight to Grey, planning to tell her to stay back, but she practically forces him into a seat before he can get a word in. Wow. He's surprised by how easily a small woman like her can push him back—he must be more disoriented than he thinks.

"Oh, no you don't," she snaps. "Don't even _think_ about fighting before I at least fix up your shoulder!"

Wash doesn't complain, but his jaw goes tight as she injects a canister of biofoam directly into the bullet wound without so much as a warning. Fuck, that burns. He wonders for a second if cauterizing it would feel better.

"This is _definitely_ atypical, Agent Washington." When her gloved fingers press just a little too hard on the wound while wrapping it, he yelps despite himself and pushes her away. "A front exit wound means someone got you from behind! It's not like you to leave your back unguarded."

"I was...distracted."

"It's not like you to get distracted either," she mutters. "Though that might explain you forgetting to message me the second comms were back online. Luckily, the Colonel sent me the data I needed."

Colonel?... _Oh_. Sarge. Come to think of it, that explains how Grey knew to come on this rescue mission with them in the first place. He probably contacted her directly.

Ignoring the questions popping into his head at Sarge and Grey's secret communique, he just says the first thing that comes to mind. "Caboose. His leg was broken completely, I don't know how he's doing. The others aren't that great either."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll fix them. I always do!" she says, false cheeriness plastered on thick. He only nods in return, not finding anything to say that will turn her smiles genuine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be with Major Brighton until the boys return."

As Grey ducks into the cockpit, Wash pulls himself to his feet, feeling slightly better now that the biofoam's numbing agent has kicked in. Slightly. "Carolina—" He cuts off abruptly as the Pelican's guns fire so loudly that he can hear their gears complaining through the hull. Jesus. He tries again, joining her in front of the ramp. "There are—"

"I see them. Six mercs, blocking the airlock. Shouldn't be too difficult to distract them." Carolina motions to the small window on the ramp. "What with Brighton's aim, I think we've got some of their attention already."

"Yeah, no kidding? I'll go out and get the rest of it. You cover me from here, draw them away from the door."

"How do you plan on distracting six mercenaries?"

"Have you ever brought a knife to a space fight?"

She scoffs. "That'll certainly get their attention. You have enough?"

His free hand immediately travels to the numerous stolen knives on his hip—he knows for a fact that their previous owner won't miss them. "Plenty."

Wash looks out the window over her shoulder and watches as Brighton's undeniably impressive accuracy takes out all the remaining turrets. When she circles around and goes for another pass, the mercs finally turn around and return fire.

"Hey, Wash," Carolina says suddenly.

"Yeah?"

Her helmet turns down as she stares at the hand hovering over his knives. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Wouldn't dream of it, boss."

"Landing now!" Brighton shouts, and the Pelican slams down onto the deck, guns bellowing. "I'm dropping the ramp in three seconds!"

"Got it," Wash and Carolina reply in tandem.

 _"Shield is up!"_ Doc calls in. _"We're ready when you guys are!"_

The second the ramp drops, Wash reaches for his knives and throws mid-leap, boots locking onto the deck just as the blade buries itself in one of the mercs' back. The merc arches backwards and his suit powers down, releasing him from the deck's tentative gravity and sending him spiraling into the clouds. One down—easy.

Unfortunately, that attracts a little more attention than he'd expected. Three of them break away from the airlock and charge towards him, raising their own light shields the second Wash switches to his rifle. Carolina lets loose with her guns on the trio, but she's a second too late and their shields block the entire barrage.

Okay, he'll admit it. They're good.

He ducks behind an attack plane and swears in surprise when one of them blasts it with enough firepower to sever one of the wings entirely and send the whole thing rocketing down towards the planet. Wash just barely makes it out of the way of the wreckage, and somehow he makes it back to his feet and raises his shield in time to block the incoming fire.

He catches sight of two of the trio splitting off towards the Pelican and turns on them, tossing one of his few grenades upwind and leveling his rifle at—

Something hard and heavy knocks all the air out of him, every last bit, and he doubles over as the merc that he thought he'd killed appears out of nowhere with a fucking _jetpack_ and drop-kicks him to the deck. The grenade tumbles, wasted, into the wind, as the other two mercs tackle Carolina out of sight.

A shadow looms over Wash, there's the sound of a gun being cocked—without looking, he throws his legs out beneath him and swings to the side. It works well enough to make the merc above him stumble, and he plants a firm kick on the man's visor before leaping to his feet.

He just barely gets his bearings when there's a scream and an explosion from the Pelican. The two mercs that went after her go flying off the ship, bodies quite literally on fire. "Caro—"

"You _bastard_!" The other merc cuts him off before he can finish, snarling to his feet and lunging forward with a knife in hand— _Wash's_ knife, the one that was embedded in a jetpack a few seconds ago. Ohh, that doesn't make him happy. Wash brings his own blade up just in time to parry, and before he knows it the two of them are in a dance of death that has Wash too busy to talk.

 _"Two down,"_ Carolina calls in, breathing hard. _"Ship's fine. One of them grazed me, nothing serious. I'm going to divert the other guy coming your way."_

Wash ducks and spins his knife in hand, planning to punch the guy hard enough to hopefully knock his gravboots free of the deck, but a sudden burst of gunfire behind him distracts him and he doesn't quite reach the force he was going for. Unfazed, the merc throws him back down to the deck and kicks the knife out of reach, slamming a foot down on his chestplate.

He sees spots for a second, but only a second, and before the merc can finish him off he reaches for another knife and buries it in the merc’s shin. The man howls and steps back, but he barely makes it upright before he’s gunned down by Carolina.

Three down. Wash drags himself to his feet. “Thanks, boss.”

_“Wash, you good?”_

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, hand to his chest. Every breath burns, though he’s not sure why. His oxygen supply isn’t lasting as long as he’d like, and something about the fight with the jetpack merc has him breathing a little harder than usual. The guy was good.

He looks toward the ship and sees Carolina standing on the ramp. She gestures to the airlock with one of the guns. _“I lost visuals on one, he’s probably got active camouflage. Be careful.”_

A roaring wave of gunfire from the Pelican sends the two remaining mercs in opposite directions, one of them refocusing fire on the ship and the other turning for Wash—and in a moment of clarity, Wash sees the opening.

"Doc, have Tucker blow the airlock!" he shouts.

_"WHAT?!"_

"Just do it!"

There's almost a second that passes before the airlock is completely ripped to shreds and the two mercs are sent flying on their faces from the force of the explosion. The Reds and Blues come out at a full sprint, followed closely by a crowd of Charon soldiers that Grif and Donut are somehow holding off.

Wash takes out a few of the soldiers and then goes for the closest merc, who's already staggering back to his feet. He grabs his rifle and holds down the trigger as he swings it around to hit the merc, but either the bastard's armor is ridiculously thick or he's made of metal because the bullets barely seem to faze him.

Suddenly he wonders if the ones they've already defeated were the easy ones.

Something's not right—well, _nothing's_ right, nothing about this whole scenario makes any sense, but this merc being so well equipped compared to the others sets off an innate alarm in Wash's head. It's time to go.

"Fall back!" he warns, lowering his rifle and slowly edging his way towards the ship. Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices that the other merc is just as protected as his. Who knows what the camouflaged one has—with his luck, it's probably as bad as a Meta suit.

He raises the rifle again as Doc and Simmons run past him with Caboose in hand, and he takes a sort of brutal pleasure in shooting the Charon soldiers stupid enough to set their sights on the fallen Blue. Donut scampers past him, taking a moment here and there to cover the rest of the group, and Grif follows close behind.

There's a blur of motion and the mercs topple once again, so suddenly that Wash almost doesn't see it happen, and then a suit of armor emerges from the blur next to him. It takes Wash an instant too long to remember that it's not Maine—but this time, when he does, there's no confusion.

"Damn," Tucker says, so obviously grinning under the visor. He's literally bouncing on his feet. "Oh, I can get _used_ to this."

Wash attempts a tight smile and ends up with something halfway there. "I'm glad to see you made it out in one piece."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a little bitch, so I'm sure as shit not gonna go out like one."

That pushes the smile into reality. "That's debatable."

"Fuck you."

No anger, Wash realizes. Annoyance, yes. Extreme annoyance. But not anger. That's nice.

"You look like shit," Tucker says suddenly, switching from his sword to his gun. "Get to the ship, I'll cover you."

"I'm—"

"I swear to God, Wash, if your next word is 'fine', I'm just going to shoot myself."

" _Tucker_ —"

Tucker turns on him before he can finish. "Are you actually going to fight me on this? Wash, you are the _EXACT OPPOSITE_ of fine right now, at this point you're better off just covering me!"

"Okay! Okay, fi— _okay,"_ Wash corrects when Tucker growls in annoyance. "Be careful."

" _Christ_ , have a little faith," Tucker mutters. And then, with the flip of some invisible switch, it's as if Wash is no longer there. Tucker is fighting, and oddly enough, Wash has more than a little faith.

That faith propels him back a step, then another, and another—and once Sarge and Lopez make their way out of the maze of bullets, Wash gets going. His focus switches rapidly between Tucker and the crowd, making sure that nobody who aims at Tucker lives to see their bullets used. He doesn't worry about defending himself, because not only does he have his shield, but the others on the Pelican are helping with the cover fire as much as possible.

Charon falls fast, but not fast enough. By the time Tucker knocks down the last grunt standing, the mercs have both gotten to their feet and have started returning fire.

"Tucker, fall back!" Wash yells.

"Not yet! I got these assholes!"

 _"Tucker_ , _Wash,"_ Carolina radios in, " _We just got word that Kimball and the lieutenants followed us up here in another Pelican."_

"What?! Why?"

_"Not important. Brighton just spotted enemy reinforcements heading straight for them. We need to go."_

Kimball, the last leader. If she falls, Chorus won't make it very far without her.

Wash lowers his light shield and turns to Tucker again. "Tucker, it's not a suggestion. Get going!"

"Alright, _fine!"_ he replies, and after stowing his gun, Tucker finally breaks into a sprint towards the Pelican. Wash is only slightly ahead of him, but his momentum carries him further ahead as he keeps his attention solely on getting out.

The ship lets off a whine of distress as it begins to lift off the deck, but Wash has no intention of slowing down. Instead, he leaps onto the ramp and unintentionally rams directly into Sarge—luckily the Red is prepared and awkwardly steadies Wash before they can both fall.

"Sorry."

"Don't mention it, Blue."

Wash throws down his gun and slumps over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. They did it. Three amazing victories, all the same day. He exhales hard, smiling as he does.

"Welcome back!" Brighton shouts. "We clear for takeoff?"

Wash tilts his head upwards and sees Tucker leap for the ramp, which at this point is just close enough to make. Still, he notices Carolina aim her grappling hook at Tucker, just in case.

"Yeah," he says. "Get us out of—"

Something invisible slams into Tucker mid-air and completely reverses his momentum, throwing him back down to the deck that is now meters below.

" _TUCKER!"_

 _From the ship. The merc was hiding on the ship._ Wash is alert instantly, eyes widening as the missing merc lowers his camouflage and wraps an arm around Tucker's neck, tearing off the Meta helmet and throwing it aside. Tucker paws weakly at the merc, but there's no air to breathe, and he's suffocating, Wash knows the feeling, knows the weakness of not being able to do anything all too well.

Wash is already thinking of some sort of convoluted plan to get Tucker out of this when the merc reaches for Tucker's implants and tears out the Epsilon chip.

Tucker goes slack in the merc's grip, eyes going wide as his hands slip to his sides, and Wash feels a gaping hole open up inside him. Nobody deserves the pain that removing an AI can cause—especially not Tucker.

It's been a while since Wash has felt this much drive to do anything—but right now, there is nothing but _impulse, impulse, impulse._

The merc pulls out a knife and that's the last straw.

"Carolina, get Tucker," he breathes.

Her head snaps around to face him. "Wash, don't you _dare_ —"

"Do it, then go to Kimball and make sure everyone gets back safe."

"Wait, Wash!"

Wash dives off of the Pelican before she has a chance to object, ignoring everyone on the ship as they shout after him. 

He plows directly into the merc and knocks him away from Tucker, pulls out one of his knives, and drives it through the merc's visor with all the force in his body. The merc spasms violently, then goes still, but Wash doesn't bother removing the blade.

Carolina's grappling hook snaps onto Tucker's armor and drags him upwards, shouting at Wash as she does, but compounded with everyone else yelling at him, it's too much. He's got to block it out before he can regret doing this.

Maybe Tucker's right. Maybe he is too self-sacrificial.

Well, it can't be helped. He doesn't know how to save them and himself at the same time.

Then Tucker starts shouting and it's too much to listen to anymore. He reaches up with his free hand and manually turns off his radio, cutting Tucker off mid-scream.

Something slams into his head and everything goes black for a moment, and when he comes to there's a hand playing with the seals on his helmet. A merc. He drives his elbow back into what he hopes is the merc's torso but another hand grabs his arm and forces it behind his back, pushing him to his knees. 

His helmet is gone and Wash gasps for breath, darkness creeping in from every corner.

Just before they drag him away, back towards the tattered airlock, Wash watches the Pelican disappear into the clouds.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) see you Friday!


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

...

For a while, they aren't sure he's going to wake up.

...

He wakes up feeling weird.

Well, weird is an understatement. He wakes up feeling like he'd rather be dead.

The feeling lasts only a moment before he falls back under.

...

The next time he wakes, he is angry. But that's an understatement too.

He wakes to the smell of hospitals and it's like a switch in his head and he lashes out and his hand connects with someone's head and they crumple like paper. All around him are stimuli that he can't make sense of, things that make him burn with rage and more. Memories of things, of places, of _hospitals,_ are nothing more than fuel to the fire.

When he goes dark this time, he fights for every last second of light, no matter how futile it is.

...

He wakes again, cold and confused. He is alone. He can only move a little. Doesn't know why. 

His hands travel against the surface underneath him. Metal. Steel, rigid. Cold. An operating table.

He has no armor. He wishes he did. Doesn't know why.

His hands reach for his implants but a door opens. He strains to see who has entered but he can't. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the glint of a needle. A sedative.

There's coherence for a moment. He whispers, "No," dully. Pointlessly.

The darkness returns as if someone has just turned out the lights.

...

When he comes to again, he feels confident. He knows there isn't any sort of reason to be confident, but he's confident nonetheless. He doesn't bother to question why—that would just be a waste of time that he doesn't have.

He realizes his predicament much faster this time around—after all, cooler heads always prevail. He's strapped to an operating table, range of motion restricted severely. His hands are still restrained, he feels disoriented. Something is cold against the back of his head, but at this angle he can't see what. Thankfully, he's alone.

Eyes locked on the door before him, he wriggles his hand until it slips free of the restraints. Immediately he reaches for his implants. There's cloth covering the area directly above them, never a good sign, and a strange metal contraption that's blocking him from feeling the actual impla—oh. _Oh._ A plug. That's not a good sign either. He traces it back along the wire but can't reach far enough to tell where it ends.

He gives it a firm yank, but it doesn't budge. He tries again, hard as he can, but it must have some sort of lock on it.

One last time, he tries—wait, better idea. He stops mid-motion and looks around the room, seeing a scalpel just within his reach. Idiots. He reaches for it, cuts his other hand free of the restraints, and pulls again.

Useless. It's not enough.

The door slams open and in rush armored guards—not nurses this time. After a quick inventory of the guns aimed at his head, he lets go of the plug and raises his hands in the air. Checkmate.

"Don't shoot," he says, voice mellow and reasonable.

They won't. Even as a nurse rushes in and slips a needle into his arm, even as he fades into unconsciousness, he's confident that they won't.

...

Agent Washington wakes up feeling weird.

But it's a different kind of weird than before. This feeling can better be described as a void. He feels empty. 

Groggy, he puts a hand to his head—hands. There are no restraints. He's completely free to move.

He sits up from the operating table and swings his legs over the side slowly, taking inventory. Physically, he feels fine—better than fine, considering the last thing he felt was...it was the cold, wasn't it? Or the needle? A bullet wound?

Huh. He can't quite remember.

Normally, noticing a lapse in memory would cause Wash to freak out. But for some reason, this time, he doesn't really care. He knows that he's fine. That's good enough for the moment.

He looks down and sees that he's wearing pale blue scrubs. Hospital. Or Staff of Charon. He can't remember which is which. Everything is a jumble.

Part of him wants to groan, but a deeper part of him quells that desire.

He slides off the table to his feet and looks around the room. It's big. Bigger than the last room he was in, anyway. There's a small cot built into the wall, a rudimentary shower and toilet, a small faucet, and a door. A prison cell—he's seen these before. Definitely Charon.

He turns back to the operating table and notices a small metal sheet sticking out from the side of it. On it is a set of thin military fatigues that look remarkably comfortable in comparison to the scrubs. They wouldn't be there if they weren't for him.

His head still feels groggy, what with that weird void feeling that he can't explain, but he ignores it as best as possible and changes silently. Fatigues are the next best thing to armor, and since he doesn't have armor right now, this is the closest he's going to get.

Armor. Where's his armor? Who took it?

Doesn't matter.

Yes it does.

No, it doesn't.

His head hurts.

If there's one thing he can feel through the void, it's the discomfort he feels without his armor. He looks around for anything with more protection than his current clothes, finding nothing. His gaze instead fixes on a window in the wall that he didn't notice before, leading to an adjoining room. 

He ignores his headache and presses his face against the window. It's cold. Inside the room are a few chairs and a small panel with—seven?—seven switches, all labeled with letters that are difficult to read through the glass. They're all in the off position, save for one, which seems pretty low but on nonetheless.

Beside all the switches is a much more familiar sight. Plugged into a tiny slot on the surface is an AI chip that Wash immediately knows is Epsilon's.

A few memories shake loose. The merc tearing the chip out of Tucker's neck. Jumping from the Pelican. Being dragged back towards the airlock as everyone he cared about made it back to Chorus safe and sound.

His head _really_ hurts.

He puts his back to the wall and rests his head against the window, closing his eyes and catching his breath. A part of him knows that what he just felt was way more than just a migraine, but the rest of him is too busy quieting his discomfort to care.

Something inside him wonders why he's not trying to escape.

There's a sharp buzzing noise in the room and Wash starts, looking around for the source. An intercom. A voice follows immediately after.

_"Agent Washington, you have ten seconds to step away from the window and return to the center of the room. You are to remain there until directed otherwise. If you do not comply, we will make you comply."_

He shudders slightly. That's weird. Threats don't usually bother him this much. He doesn't recognize the voice, but some part of him has the sense to know that going against it is a bad idea. He's not quite sure _what_ part of him feels that way, just that it does and that it's a good idea to listen.

It takes him a moment to realize that all these thoughts of compliance and nonresistance are coming from the same place as that void sensation.

But that doesn't matter.

He backs away from the wall and toward the operating table, some strange urge forcing him to sit back down. The cold metal feels foreign beneath him, like it's not supposed to be there. Like _he's_ not supposed to be there. 

A door slides open next to the window, and in come people, he can't quite track how many, all clothed in either light armor or white medical suits. Guards, doctors. Or scientists, or something. 

When he looks back at the window, there are two people in the room. One is another doctor, wearing a lab coat instead of armor, and is seated at the controls. The other is Malcolm Hargrove.

The name has an innately negative association for Wash. But, oddly enough, that's it. He knows Hargrove is bad news. But he feels no hate. He feels nothing, actually—which immediately sets off a red flag in the part of him that knows something's wrong.

The doctor adjusts her headset and speaks, and it's the same voice as the one from the intercom. _"Agent Washington, I am Science Officer Lochley. The success of this test relies on your compliance. Do not speak unless spoken to, do not act unless told to do so. Nod if you understand."_

Test. This is a test. Hargrove is testing him. He knows this is bad, but he's not sure why. The void feeling is stronger than ever. He doesn't want to fail a test.

_"Agent Washington,"_ Lochley presses. _"Nod if you understand."_

Follow orders. That he can do.

Wash nods slowly, not meeting her eye. She sits back slightly, satisfied.

There is silence for a moment.

Hargrove leans down and presses a button on the console, keeping his gaze locked on Wash the entire time. 

_"Good to see you again, Agent Washington."_

He sounds content. Looks amused.

_"I'm absolutely ecstatic that you came back to us, David—may I call you David—"_

"No," Wash says. He doesn't think about it, it just slips out. 

Apparently that wasn't the right thing to say. The soldiers all reach for weapons, but a single gesture from Hargrove keeps them from firing. _"Everyone, relax. I was merely trying to extend courtesy to our associate here—but it appears such methods may not be effective in this scenario. Care to explain, Lochley?"_

_"Sir,"_ she says, _"there are no precedents for us to work off of. My best guess is that a lower percentage of Theta state may allow for free response."_

Hargrove straightens up slightly for a moment. _"Needless to say, I look forward to the results from your next test, Lochley_. _"_

_"Of course, sir."_

_Theta_. The word rings in Wash's ears. The Theta fragment. The Epsilon chip. There's a link there somewhere, but something—that goddamn _void_ —is stopping him from figuring out what that connection is.

Rather suddenly, Wash realizes that he's only seeing in purple.

A part of Wash freaks out, because _how the fuck is that possible_ —and yet again, another part of him reaches out from that feeling of void and tells him to sit down, shut up, and accept it.

Accept it he does. He just sits there silently, taking in the purple-tinged everything around him, and that's all. 

He _shouldn't_ be doing that. But he is.

Hargrove addresses him again, and Wash listens. _"On the subject of what to call you, I supposed Agent Washington will be sufficient. However, as you are technically property of Charon Industries now, you should count yourself lucky I'm taking your personal preferences into account."_

That's wrong. He knows that it's wrong, knows that it's quite possibly the worst thing to be happening right now, but at the same time...he doesn't think so. He can't find any reason why that would be wrong, yet every instinct and fiber of his body says that it is.

"Alright," he says softly, and every part of him screams that that was a mistake, that he shouldn't have said that, but why not? What's wrong with belonging somewhere?

...No. That's not right.

Yes it is.

No.

Yes.

Why?

Why not?

Ok... No, not ok.

But it is.

Are you sure?

He trusts that Hargrove isn't lying. He doesn't. But he also does. And he has no reason why, and he has no idea how, but he just can't find any reason not to trust, which is wrong because there _should_ be some sort of reason, and he knows that he should be panicking right now, but he's not, because there's no _reason_ —

_"Agent Washington."_ The Chairman's voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and Wash realizes that his fists are clenched so hard that his nails have drawn blood. _"I realize that this system may not allow you to vocalize what's going on inside your mind, but I must ask you not to damage yourself. You're of no use to anyone dead."_

Of course he's not useful when he's dead. He doesn't want to hurt himself. But his hands are not responding. It's like they're on a different frequency than his mind—he can't feel a thing. He looks down at his own hands and feels a sudden pang of hurt, more like betrayal than actual pain.

Hargrove's face twitches in disapproval. _"Lochley, what level are we at?"_

_"19%, sir. He's responding very well—"_

_"Not well enough."_

_"Yes, sir. Increasing Theta input to 43%."_

_Theta_. The name is as recognizable as his own. _The Alpha fragment_.

But that doesn't matter now, because Hargrove is calling for him again. _"Agent Washington, I implore you. Relax."_

This time, Wash's hands release immediately, and he doesn't have to tell them to. He just knows that it'll be fine, and his body responds to the order without any further thought.

_"Excellent,"_ Hargrove croons, stepping back slightly. _"I'd consider that a somewhat successful test, no? Turn off Theta for a moment, Lochley."_

The doctor complies an instant later and Wash is struck by a sudden dizziness as the rest of the colors fade into the world. It's not right. Something feels missing, and that _void,_ that void feeling is still there. He can barely think straight, can barely see. His palms sting like hell. The first thing he notices is that he aches all over—whatever they were doing him must've made him ignore the pain. After that, he can't think far past the pain so nothing else really matters. The comfort that he'd previously felt with his situation is gone, replaced with a growing feeling of dread.

But once his senses start to settle, he sees Hargrove, watches as he stands there and just observes behind his fucking glass wall _,_ and a burning distaste starts to grow alongside that dread. Hargrove looks unhinged, something he didn't notice before. He's not happy. Something must be wrong with his exploits on Chorus. Wash takes the tiniest bit of pride in that thought.

Vaguely he senses the presence of two armored guards at his sides, each one of which has a hand clamped firmly on his shoulder. He hadn't noticed them before either. Wash isn't going anywhere.

_"Agent Washington,"_ Hargrove says, _"do you have any questions?"_

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" Wash mutters, too weak to put any effort into making his words portray the searing hate he feels.

_"...Not exactly the phrasing I was expecting, but close enough. Lochley?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

The colors in the room return to purple jarringly—and with it, Wash feels an immediate sense of ease. His muscles relax, his mind clears, the guards step away, he's in a completely and utterly safe environment.

Which he's not.

But he _feels_ like he is. And he knows that nobody here would ever do anything to hurt him. That's what's important.

Maybe.

No. Nobody will hurt him. Stop thinking that. It's wrong.

This is _all_ wrong.

_"I'll be brief, Agent Washington."_ The Chairman paces slowly with his hands behind his back, observing Wash as if he can see the struggle going on within him. _"As I'm sure you're aware, you're not thinking in the same way you usually do. Rather, your thoughts and actions are being controlled by a single emotion: trust. I was rather hoping you wouldn't realize the disparity between your current and previous selves so soon—but clearly, trusting someone like me is a...a new experience for you."_

Oh. Ok. He _does_ feel trusting today, though he can't imagine why. Wash has a thousand questions as to how Hargrove has done this, but for some reason he can't push through the final inch to actually asking any of them. Besides, he's sure that Hargrove will tell him.

_"You are currently in Theta state, a mental state of heightened trust and obedience. Anything we say, regardless of its veracity, will seem sincere and truthful to you, and you will find no reason to distrust us, regardless of how you really feel. However, trust isn't the only thing we can control. Lochley?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Let's try...Eta only, full input. Give him three seconds, then back to Theta."_

The doctor moves one of her hands upwards over the panel and—

Everything is blue.

Wash gasps for breath as all of his repressed worries and doubts are suddenly sent pouring through to the forefront of his mind, his trust evaporating instantly—and every reason he couldn't previously find for distrusting Hargrove suddenly explodes in to fill the gap. The face, the calm smirk. The millions of people he's lied to, and tricked and conned, and the ways he's hurt so many people in so many ways. The ways he's manipulated _Wash_ into hurting his friends and trusting his enemies, only to be backstabbed before he can realize what's going on. The fact that the Chairman can kill every single one of the Reds and Blues and everyone on Chorus if he just fires this ship's cannon on the bases, but he hasn't, why hasn't he used something that could so easily win the war, why isn't he letting them go, _why_ hasn't he killed them yet, _where are his friends, what is going on, what did they do to me, why am I still_ —

And then everything is purple again, and every question he has is abruptly ripped from his mind, leaving him with nothing more than a choking sensation as he struggles for air and grabs tight to the table.

Even through the haze induced by whatever mental state he's currently in, Wash can distinctly hear one thought, unhindered by anything—

_What was that?_

As if he can read his mind, Hargrove responds. _"That was Eta state. Whereas Theta enhances trust, Eta enhances fear and paranoia, a rather unpleasant shift in my opinion. I don't think I need to explain the depths of paranoia to you, Agent Washington. Suffice it to say, when I said that you belonged to Charon now, I meant it—mind, body and all."_

Despite the removal of whatever that...that _feeling_ was supposed to be, because that was too intense to just be paranoia, Wash feels trapped. He cannot respond, cannot react, can't stop his body from going rigid as his brain tells him one thing and his gut tells him another and something that he can't recognize tells him that he's going to die while something _else_ that he can't recognize tries to tell him that everything is going to be alright when it clearly, most _certainly_ isn't.

This isn't right.

It's not. But it's okay.

How can it _possibly be okay?!_

It just is. Trust me.

I can't.

You have to. You don't get a choice in the matter.

_"Agent Washington, please respond."_

He can't. He physically can't.

_"...Sir,"_ Lochley says slowly. _"Theta's at 48%, but his system is still in shock from the sudden switch. I recommend another pass with Eta to acclimate him."_

Hargrove hums. _"Very well. Raise Eta input to match Theta and then balance as you see fit."_

Icy blue begins to creep in on the edges of Wash's vision, and everything it touches grows cold and vicious. Every angle grows sharper, every surface looks deadly, every person is a monster. The questions, the fears, the terror, it all starts coming back, surrounding him on every side. And even worse is the crippling stab of betrayal he feels, as his suffering goes unappeased by the man who claims to be trustworthy. He feels his trust being tested by his doubts, his fears, his paranoia—and yet, his trust still remains, and he still feels safe in the hands of the person who's currently trying to rip his mind to shreds.

The contradiction is excruciating. Physically, it's like he's suffering from a panic attack. Mentally, his own thoughts are tearing him apart from the inside out.

To his own horror, his fears get the better of him. "Stop," he whispers meekly, shrinking away from everything as his fingers try to dig into the metal surface beneath him and fail. " _Please_."

Hargrove merely chuckles, as if he finds Wash's suffering mildly amusing. He probably does. _"Oh, don't worry, you'll get used to this. Actually, you'll be dealing with this quite a lot. Eta and Theta are only two of the seven states we currently possess control over within your psyche—and theoretically, we could activate all seven at once. But like I said, we don't want to damage you. You and all the new tech in your brain are ridiculously valuable, and a complete psychological meltdown would be catastrophic."_

A particularly sharp pang of worry grabs hold of him as he shakily repeats, "New tech."

_"Of course. Your neural implants weren't nearly enough to hold multiple AI, so I had them upgraded. Another fine example of our control, no? Here we have a soldier who refuses AI, now harboring seven of them. I don't think even a willing participant would take that many."_

Seven. Wash doesn't respond—mostly because he's not quite sure what to say. He wishes everything would stop hurting, stop being so sharp, so dangerous, so painful.

_"...Ah. Silly me."_ Hargrove picks up the conversational slack easily, like he's been doing it his whole life. He laughs and looks at Lochley as if conveying some sort of joke. _"I shouldn't expect you to be fully responsive so soon. Well, I suppose we'll leave you be for the night—it may not feel like it, but it's currently two in the morning, ship's time. You had best be ready for the morning's tests. Needless to say, we'll be seeing a lot more of each other for the foreseeable future. Good night, Agent Washington."_

Lochley takes this as some sort of cue and stands as Hargrove leaves, just like that. Gone. Leaving Wash more confused and terrified than ever.

As the other soldiers leave, Lochley reaches for the panel—but stops when she notices that Wash flinches at the action. She pulls back with a strange smile, watching him as the door closes behind the last guard.

_"Good,"_ she muses, looking directly into his eyes. _"You're starting to get it. Consider yourself lucky I'm not the one manning the panel during the night shift. Tech Officer Kittinger will be handling you until I take over in the morning. Let's pray you last longer than the others—these tests won't be much fun otherwise."_

Then she looks down and starts working the panel, speaking as she does so. _"ICARUS personal log, day one. Preliminary tests completed for the day, switching to the night shift. Hopefully Kittinger doesn't fuck with the subject. AI blackout in ten seconds."_

With that, she takes off her headset and heads for the door. And at the same time, the augmented colors in his vision start to fade to normal.

There's a brief moment of clarity where Wash moves to reach for the door—and when it slams shut, it does so with a finality that completely jolts him back to reality.

For a good minute, he just sits there, staring blankly at the door, trying to make sense of the jumbled sensory information he's getting. A lot of it is pain—but most of the physical pain has given way to sharp stabs of foreign thought that rip through his head like a chainsaw. He feels shaken, confused, content, angry, alone, and he's only sure that _some_ of those feelings are uniquely his.

The silent panic sets in after a few more minutes of just silence, as he pieces together the things they said and slowly realizes what's going on. Hargrove, _Charon,_ messed with his implants. They have AI fragments, they have Epsilon, and something they've done has made it possible to shove seven separate fragments into his brain. To make matters worse, he racks his mind for memories and feels only confirmation. The void feeling doesn't come from nothingness. It comes from the fact that the wires and ports in his head are different now, neater, rearranged in a way that feels horribly invasive. He doesn't have to know the science of it or see it to know what it is. He can feel the emptiness lurking between his memories, the fact that all his memories, the good and the bad, are no longer as grounded and protected as they used to be. The void. Empty pathways for other thoughts to invade.

He runs a hand over his implants and feels no chip in the slot. No slot, either. The plug. They were downloading Epsilon. There are Epsilon pieces in his head, he can feel it. After all the trouble he and Epsilon have gone through, after their fights, their brief moments of teamwork, and their complete meltdown, Epsilon is back and all his tiny fragmented pieces are there.

Hargrove _really_ fucked him up. It doesn't take any science to feel that.

Wash's mind starts to wander a bit—and to his relief, his thoughts slowly start to sound like his own. He wonders why Hargrove looked so pissy, why Lochley looked like she had several sticks up her ass, what tests they have planned for him, what _else_ they have planned for him. He wonders if Charon shot Kimball out of the sky before the Pelican got to her.

Oh, god, he wonders what _day_ it is. How long has he been here? Obviously a while, if they fucked with his implants so tremendously. Shouldn't the UNSC have taken care of Hargrove by now? Why is Charon still functioning, whatever happened to the giant war on Chorus, and _why is Hargrove so angry?_

Are his friends okay?

He doesn't want to think about the possible answers to that.

Is this what Maine felt like?

If possible, he wants to think about that even less.

At some point he has the nerve to stand, and he does so, feeling shaky even though knows for a fact that he's perfectly steady. He approaches the window once more and looks at the panel—all the switches are off. Whatever they're doing, they're not doing it now.

Wash lets out an exhale that shakes just hard enough to give him the brilliant idea that he needs to sit down. He practically slides down the wall, and as if remembering some long-forgotten time where he felt similarly, his hands instinctively pull his knees in towards his chest. He rocks back and forth slightly, but eventually gives up on that and just buries his head in his arms. Between his shaky breaths and his ears covered by his shoulders, he can't really tell if he's crying or not. He doesn't care. Stoic soldier Washington isn't there at the moment.

There's a buzzing sound again, the same intercom noise as before, and Wash has learned. He jolts upright and scrambles away from the door before anyone can say anything over those damn speakers, back against the table with his eyes locked on the person behind the window.

The woman at the table looks up, startled somewhat by how fast he scrambled into sight, but the surprise fades. And then, weirdly enough, she salutes him. Not like a real salute. But her face scrunches up and she bounces two fingers off her forehead, before reaching for the headset.

He scoffs lightly. Wash already likes Kittinger better than Lochley. Maybe this one will act like a decent human being and break the Charon standard. God knows he could use a friend.

Then Kittinger lifts up a clipboard and talks.

_"O-fucking-kay, another graveyard shift with Lochley's fetish project. Joy. So, you're the new ICARUS candidate. What's your name? Ah, nevermind. Says it right here...David Kehhhholy fuck."_

Kittinger lowers the clipboard to her side. For a moment, there's silence. She stares at Wash and Wash stares right back, because there's no way to reconcile the voice he thinks he's hearing with the person before him.

_"You,"_ she mutters, pointing weakly, _"you, you, you're Agent Washington."_

Coming over the intercom is the unmistakeable voice of 479er.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D And so it begins.
> 
> I'm a little early due to the Switch and BotW and school and all, but after this, expect Friday afternoons for chapters!
> 
> THANKS FOR THE KUDOS YOU GUYS OH MY HECK YOU ALL MAKE M'DAY!!
> 
> Oh I probably should have mentioned this buuuut my tumblr is [awesomenessagenda](http://awesomenessagenda.tumblr.com) and my art blog is [moriorioh-no](https://moriorioh-no.tumblr.com). If anyone ends up drawing art for this just tag me in it or tag it as [htdy fic](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/htdy-fic) so I can mention you in the notes! I'll also be tagging my own art for this as well, I like drawing this almost as much as writing it! See you next week...


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

...

"' _Kittinger'_?"

The name is out before he can catch it, propelled forward by disbelief. Of all the last names she could've had, Wash would never peg "Kittinger" as one of them. Of course, nothing seems as impossible as the fact that 479er is actually _here,_ aboard the ship with him, separated from him by no more than a sheet of glass.

Kittinger—Niner?—places her clipboard down on the panel and steps back, running hands through thick hair. Hair, face. He's never seen her face before. All their missions, all their time in Recovery, and he's never seen her face or heard her last name. He seems to remember Carolina once calling her "Alex" in passing, but that hardly seems important.

_"Holy fuck, I-I don't fucking believe this—"_

But the voice is unmistakable. And when she talks, it only makes him more sure that it's her.

Wash takes a tentative step towards the window—and apparently that's a mistake, because as soon as he does, Niner's expression immediately goes dark. 

_"WAIT!"_

She all but launches herself at the panel and slams one of the switches all the way up and Wash crumples, hands to his head as everything goes a bright green and the world is suddenly reduced to information, data and numbers that flood into his brain too fast, too much, _too much_ —

 _"Shit, too much, not good,"_ she says. Apologetic. Frantic. 

Delta, it's definitely Delta this time. He struggles to hold in a scream and somewhat succeeds, but before he can stop himself the numbers are coming to him, probabilities, statistics, and they make him move and his lips form the words and say them, because how else can he get them all out?

 _"Jesus."_ Niner's voice crackles in through the intercom, clipped,  rushed. _"Fuck, I'm sorry, Wash, I know this hurts but I have to do something, okay? Just bear with me. You can't say anything, your audio's on a different router than mine."_

He tries to move his body but can only shake his head. He can't do it. Quiet is impossible. The words, numbers, memories just pour out without any warning. His train of thought veers towards her and before he knows it he's whispering the word "niner" over and over again. 

Her response is to use the panel again—she moves another switch and things become a muddy haze of green with swirls of purple, comforting and warm. Theta. Trust.

_"Wash, stop talking."_

He does. It takes a considerable amount of effort to do it, but he does. All the numbers hurt without saying them, but he does it because he trusts Niner and she told him to. It's the logical thing to do.

_"Wash, listen to me. I have to hardcode this, okay? No matter what, you can't tell Lochley anything about what I'm doing right now. No matter what. Nod if you understand."_

He nods. Don't say anything. Don't tell Lochley. He can do that. He can do that. 

_"Do not, NO MATTER WHAT, tell Lochley anything I'm saying to you now. I'll be right back."_

He nods again. 

She doesn't say anything else. There's just the buzz of the intercom and she's gone.

Wash drags himself back under the window—he has a feeling that he'll be going there a lot. Under Theta's coaxing, Delta's data slowly fades from raw sensory to binary, ones and zeroes that he can no longer make sense of. It's better than the things he does understand. He waits. Pulls his knees up to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to drown out the green. He focuses on the pulses of Theta he can feel as an anchor, remembering Niner's words. _Stop talking. Just hold out. Don't tell Lochley. I'll be right back. Don't tell Lochley._

He waits. He waits. Delta counts for him. One minute. Two. Six. Nineteen. He doesn't panic when the time drones on. Panic makes no sense. It's illogical. She said she'd come back. She'll come back. He won't tell Lochley. He won't tell Lochley.

At precisely twenty-three minutes and fifty-two seconds, the lights go out with a strange noise. Wash opens his eyes, notices the dark, and forces himself to look at the window. Three seconds later, someone enters the other room with a flashlight.

 _"Fucking great. This is ICARUS log, night one. I've run into a technical problem,"_ Niner says into the headset. _"Delta seems to have acted independently of the controls and he's now drawing power from the lab systems. Delta state is at 100% now, but the subject isn't ready for full implementation yet so I had to use Theta at 100% to pacify him. A lot, I know. Not that Lochley gives a crap. I'm manually rebooting the lab now, should be getting power back in ten minutes. In the meantime, AI will be inactive and all equipment will be locked down. I'll deal with the subject, no need to wake up Lochley or the Chairman. Kittinger out."_

 _Icarus_. Lochley said that too. He doesn't know what it is, but it has to be important.

 _"Alright, just a few more seconds,"_ Niner says.

He waits. Braces himself. Six seconds go by and suddenly there's a jolt of pain through his head, as if a bolt of lightning has struck his implants and electrified his entire nervous system. Delta and Theta are gone instantaneously. He shouts in surprise and runs his fingers roughly through his hair, squeezing his eyes even tighter shut.

Weak light strips hum to life along the base of the walls. A door opens quietly beside him, but the sound is like a crack of thunder and his eyes shoot open immediately. He watches silently as Niner walks in and sits on the edge of the table, legs crossed. 

"Relax," she says.

He takes immediate comfort in the fact that he doesn't. There's nothing subconscious at the moment telling him to relax, calm down or listen to anything that he doesn't believe. It's oddly nice to feel paranoid when he knows it's his own paranoia. 

Niner sighs, making it sound more like a groan. "Wash, _c'mon_. We don't have a lot of time before the system reboots, and I won't be able to pull a trick like this again. So either you relax and help me figure out an escape plan or we're both fucked."

There's a staring contest for a few more seconds. 

"Niner," he finally says, more of a question than a confirmation.

Niner dips her head in an awkward bow. "The one and only. Well, I mean, there's probably more out there with the same name but...yeah. I shut down the room so we can talk in private."

He opens his mouth to ask why, then stops. There are a million other things he wants to ask her more. He decides to go with the most mundane. "Your name is 'Kittinger'."

"Last name, anyway. Try not to call me Niner here, else we're kind of fucked."

Unintentionally, he glances behind him at the panel, remembering the jolt of Delta screaming through his implants. "Seems like I'm fucked no matter what I do."

"Look, Wash, I had to fake a malfunction of the equipment. It was the only way we could talk. Lochley listens to all of the recordings from my shifts, and if she heard us being all buddy-buddy then I'd be off your night watch and you'd have someone _way_ worse."

"I don't understand. How are you even here?"

"What, on the ship?" She scoffs. "Not by choice, I'll tell you that. I'd kill to get out of here—but I don't really have much of choice. I was arrested after Freelancer, same as you. Except Hargrove saw my technical skills, figured I was good for the new project and didn't exactly give me an alternative."

"New project. Is that the 'Icarus' thing that you and Lochley both mentioned?"

Niner nods and leans back on her arms, and Wash recognizes something that he hasn't seen in a long while. The rare days when he'd run into her around the MoI, when she wouldn't be managing supplies or running a mission, he would almost invariably find her in the same position. He couldn't ever tell what she was thinking behind her helmet when she did that, the slouch, the staring at nothingness. Seeing her face now gives him a feeling that she was never doing it to contemplate the better things in life.

"Yep. Project ICARUS. Hargrove's neverending quest to make a functioning Meta."

Something must shift on his face, because she sighs. "Yeah. I feel ya. It's pretty fucking cruel, if you ask me. I had to watch you hunt down the Meta, kill him, _Maine_ —now I have to watch Lochley turn you into one. Like I said, I'd give anything to get out."

Wash had been sitting fairly comfortably against the wall, but at the mention of Maine he pulls his knees up close to his chest again. He tries to think of something to say but ultimately can't. Dealing with Maine—not just hunting him down, but even working with him, as the Meta—well, Wash had never been very hopeful that his old friend was still in there somewhere. He'd always been too afraid to think of what _was_ in there instead. And now...

As if reading his mind, Niner says, "Well. I guess you'll find out what was going on with him that whole time. First-hand. I'll do my best on my end—" she motions to the other room— "to make sure you experience as little as possible. But I can't fake test results. If Lochley gives me a job to do, I've gotta do it. I..." She sighs. "I'm not gonna lie, Wash. I can't get you out of this the same way you are right now. If you think you're fucked up now, just..."

She sits up suddenly, shaken. Purses her lips. "You're not the first ICARUS candidate. There were six others. Charon somehow salvaged tiny fragments of Alpha from the offsite storage facility and tried to fill in the gaps with their own written code, but they weren't stable enough. They got enough to start testing, I guess, but they needed test subjects. Then they stumbled across the Triplets."

Wash sits up straighter, the nickname as recognizable as his own. "The Director said they quit."

She shakes her head, her voice falling to just above a whisper. "He had me fly them to a planet for a fake mission, then drop them off without any way to contact us. I figured they'd be fine, but I kept tabs, just in case. Then Hargrove found them listed in the Freelancer roster and traced them back to the planet. Charon took them, along with three other Charon defectors that had been abandoned there. The Triplets all had implants already, they were perfect. Then Charon got to work.

"I, ah, wasn't high up enough on anyone's radar when they started testing the Charon kids. I just crunched their numbers and made sense of the results. They were fitted with implants against their will and then given the tiny pieces of Alpha to deal with. After they died, they brought Idah— _Ezra_ in, and figured that someone with tech and Freelancer background would handle it better.

"He made it farther than the others—Vera and Mike were being tested at the same time, but both of them got tiny pieces that were mostly Eta and Theta and they fell apart quick. But Ezra got a fragment of Omega. I worked the night shifts then too. I watched him get angry. Watched him stop talking with me, watched him punch the wall until his fists bled, watched him tear people apart in battle simulations with a ferocity that didn't fit him. I tried to keep him together, but it just didn't work.

"One day, a month later, Lochley came in to her shift to find that he'd stolen a knife from a simulation and slit his own wrists. The whole thing had destroyed him. After that, they figured they should just wait until the ideal subject came by. Someone with AI experience, better suited to the experiment. Then you were _stupid_ enough to come here."

She looks at the floor. "You've been here for a little over three months. They've been more careful with you. They have more control. And they have Epsilon, which somehow came already fragmented when they got him, so they had their work already part done."

"Three months," he echoes. He hates the idea of that kind of gap in his memory. Then, as if just realizing it, he turns on her. "Wait, what's been happening on Chorus?!"

Wash immediately braces himself for a bad answer—but relaxes instantly when, for the first time since seeing her here, she smiles.

"Oh, man, your pals are _fun_ to fucking watch. I've been recording Hargrove's strategy meetings secretly and he's pissed beyond _belief_ with them. Even though Charon's reinforcements came through, those sim troopers are still kicking."

Ah. There's the bad answer. "Reinforcements?"

"The Tiberius and the Calypso. Cutting-edge new UNSC cruisers with corrupt-as-fuck captains. They've got a blockade up around Chorus, and they keep sending soldiers and equipment down, but the UNSC is too afraid to challenge the Charon ships. Chorus has valuable resources, and the Tiberius has a nuclear missile it keeps threatening to use."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh' is right. I said your friends down there were alive, not that they were doing great. But the good news is, some of the pirates have changed sides—and thanks to the alien technology, Chorus's armies aren't losing too many people. The Calypso ran out of expendable soldiers a week ago, and the Tiberius is getting into the final hundred or so. Hargrove's getting desperate."

"What's he so desperate about?" Wash asks. "Is there something he needs from Chorus even more than wiping out the inhabitants?"

"The Meta suit. The enhancements he added are fucking ridiculous, both in cost and power. He's not stopping until he gets it back. Thankfully, that Tucker character is causing some serious damage with it."

Wash exhales hard and looks at the ceiling, too dark to see. "He's alive. That's good."

"Yeah, and from the looks of it, he's kicking harder than anyone else," she says. Then she pauses for a moment. "I'm kind of piecing things together as I go, with you and the sim troopers, but...you two were pretty close, right?"

"Yeah." His voice comes out hollow. "Pretty close."

"Did you fuck?"

Wash almost chokes in surprise. "Did w— _what?!_ No! Jesus! Where the fuck did _that_ come from?"

"Hey, I _did_ say I was piecing things together. I mean, I already knew you were bi and all so I just—"

" _How?!_ Who told you?"

Niner shrugs. "Uhhhh, I think York at some point mentioned you mentioning it once, way back. Or North. Or both. They said you were drunk when you said it, but personally, I think they just figured it out."

He starts to splutter some sort of mangled reply, but she cuts him off. "So are you interested? I mean, I've seen the reports. He's easy as fuck on the eyes, so I'd totally get where you're coming from."

"No—I mean— _maybe??_ I-I don't know," he stammers. This is opening up a whole floodgate of conversation on this topic that he's never really had before, and he has no _clue_ how to handle it.

"Wash, you're a grown-ass man, what do you mean, _'you don't know'?_ Are you into him, yes or no? _"_

"I wouldn't even—it's not like I've ever even considered it."

"Look, lemme make it easy. Is he nice?"

Wash snorts.

"Does he care about you?"

"Well—"

"Is he your type?"

"Wai—"

"Would you do anything for him?"

"Niner, I—"

"I still haven't heard a no," she says.

"Why do you even care?"

"Well, it's not like I can talk about this kind of stuff with you once the power comes back. They know we both worked together in Freelancer, but if they suspect me of helping you any more than I did with Ezra, they'll kill me."

The sobriety bleeds back into the room jarringly.

She notices the shift as much as he does and sits up slightly. "Yeah." Her voice wobbles a little bit, yet somehow manages to be hard as steel. "Anyway, I think it's a crying shame you didn't say anything to him. Before you, y'know, blindly sacrificed yourself to an evil corporation to save him. Hargrove's made a point of not telling Chorus whether you're alive or not, so your 'pretty close' friend probably thinks you're dead."

Oh.

There's a different kind of pit in his stomach now, completely separate of the void. It feels wrong. Tucker already thought he was dead once. It's not fair to do it to him again.

"I've got a ship," Niner says suddenly.

Wash looks up.

"I mean, not yet. I've been working on it and all. But I don't actually have it yet. I've been slowly upgrading my flight clearance without anyone seeing it. Within a week I'll be able to hijack a Pelican, then get us down to the surface. You'll know when—I'll make sure you do. Then we can work on getting that stuff out of your head."

"And you think you can get us both out?"

"With a shitload of luck." Then she stands up, hands in oversized pockets. "But in the meantime, Lochley's got you for sixteen hours a day. And I can't do anything about what she's planning for you, so you're going to have to make it through on your own. You up to it, rookie?"

Rookie. He hasn't been called that in a while.

He nods.

"Peachy." Niner reaches into her pocket and pulls out—of all things—what looks like an _ancient_ pager. With a little belt clip and everything. Then she points at the wall above the window. He follows her direction to a small camera. " _That_ covers the entire room, but if you turn towards the wall in the cot you can hide this. Stuff it between the wall and the mattress when you're not using it."

She tosses the pager to him and he catches it, then shoves it in his pocket. "I've got another one, and they're both so damn ancient that the ship doesn't receive their frequency. It's only for things you don't want Charon to hear. Don't use it unless I'm in the control room, got it?"

"Got it."

Niner smiles tightly. "We can do this."

"Yeah."

Neither one of them sounds very convinced.

There's silence for a moment, then Niner gestures to the cot. "Time's almost up. Hide the pager."

He nods and stands, moving towards the cot. It's about as uncomfortable as he expects, but he pushes that thought away. He doubts he'll be getting much sleep here anyway.

He chooses a spot on the wall and slides the pager in, cutting it close as the lights turn on a few seconds later. Wash looks to Niner in surprise but she's already back in the control room. When he opens his mouth to say something, she puts a finger to her lips and points up. The camera.

Right.

His mouth snaps shut quietly. Now that it's over, Wash is surprised by how unsatisfying that short conversation was. It leaves him aching for something more. He'd give anything to have someone to talk with, anything to distract him from this. Not for the first time, he finds himself aching for his days in the canyon, with everyone. Where all they did was stand around and talk. Part of him would kill for small talk—or at least, something that wasn't as disheartening as what Niner had described.

_Project ICARUS. Hargrove's neverending quest to make a functioning Meta._

He doesn't want this to happen to him. But for now—for a week, at least—he doesn't seem to have much of a choice.

Just a week. Just a week and he can go back to his life, and pretend that this is all over. Oddly enough, the idea of Dr. Grey prodding around in his head doesn't seem nearly as disturbing as it once did, long before. Not if she can fix this. 

 _Just a week,_ he thinks. _Just a week._

Wash lies down on the cot with his arms behind his head, not really sure what else to do. He looks over to Niner and sees her buried in some computer, talking, but her voice isn't coming over the intercom so he assumes she's working on something. She's ignoring him.

He stares at her for a minute, just watching, and tries to picture her in her flight suit and helmet. Tries to get the two pictures of her straight. There's a moment where he almost does it, almost pictures Kittinger and Niner as the same person, but then she moves and the image is shattered.

When he finally gives up on staring at her, he curls in toward the wall and reaches for the pager.

 

**STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME**

**ARE YOU AN IDIOT**

 

He snorts. Guess they can still talk.

Coupled with the fact that Wash hasn't typed anything into a handheld device since before Freelancer, the already ancient pager is near impossible to use—but he still finds himself typing a response immediately.

 

**sorry you didnt exactly give me directions**

**no talking?**

 

**NO. YOUVE GOT A FEW HOURS LEFT**

**REST WHILE YOU CAN**

 

**how long?**

 

**JUST TRY AND SLEEP**

 

Wash pauses.

 

**i dont know if i can**

 

**WHY NOT**

 

**why do you think**

 

**DO IT**

 

**cant**

 

**YOURE NOT EVEN TRYING**

 

**its pointless**

**so how are you**

 

**WASH IS2G**

 

**what does that mean**

 

**OH MY GOD**

******IT MEANS I SWEAR TO GOD**

**DO YOU NOT HAVE A FUCKING PHONE**

 

**no**

**do phones work in space?**

 

**ALL THIS TIME AND YOURE STILL A SMARTASS**

**ALRIGHT SO YOURE NOT SLEEPING**

**YOU WANNA TALK?**

**TALK**

**TELL ME ABOUT THIS TUCKER GUY**

 

**why him**

 

**I DONT KNOW MAN JUST ENLIGHTEN ME**

**SAY SOMETHING OR IM OUT**

 

He does. Wash types into the night, tells her about Tucker, the Reds, the Blues, everything she might have possibly missed. He describes the feeling of working with this new team, of slowly finding a place where he can work his way back to normal. He goes on, abbreviated message after message—and every time he's afraid that he's said too much, that she's gotten bored, Niner jumps in and asks about something else. At some point she interrupts him with a bunch of instructions on how to use texting acronyms before he continues with the stories, and their interaction speed increases immensely. It's been a while since having such a meaningless conversation has felt so good.

 

**WASH THERES TEN MINUTES LEFT**

 

**that fast?**

 

**YUP**

**WELL**

**THIS WAS PRETTY GREAT**

**WELL DO THIS AGAIN TMW OKAY**

 

It's hard to feel emotion through a message, but he doesn't miss the solemn tone behind her words. The reassurance that he'll see her again.

It takes him what feels like hours to reply. 

 

**yeah**

 

**YOU CAN DO IT WASH**

**YOURE STRONGER THAN THEM**

**BESIDES I HCD THE IMPORTANT STUFF**

**YOULL MAKE IT**

 

**this is getting depressing**

**what does hcd mean?**

 

**WASH**

**GOOD LUCK**

 

Wash starts to type the question again, but her voice comes over the intercom before he can send it. _"Wash, listen up. The night shift will end within the next ten minutes. Officer Lochley will be in to take over for me shortly. Until then, just wait at the center of the room for further instructions. ICARUS log, this is Kittinger, signing off."_

He hides the pager quickly and sits up just in time to see her take off the headset and gather up her things. She catches his eye for a moment, flashes him a weak smile, and is gone.

Alone again. 

Wash stands slowly, arms wrapped around his torso. It's cold here. His fatigues aren't nearly warm enough. With Niner talking to him, he'd been too distracted to realize—but now that she's gone he feels like he could freeze to death. It's probably good for his implants, but it sure as hell can't be good for him.

It's this growing feeling of cold and loneliness that prompts him to reach out to Epsilon, probing his mind for whatever fragments may be there, may be aware of him. They're all there, he knows it—but he can't find them. Nothing but void. It's infuriating. For the first time in his life, he actually _wants_ to hear something in his head besides himself.

He makes his way to the table and leans against it, groaning under his breath. Fatigue is starting to kick in, making his movements drag just slightly, but it's not yet at the point where he's struggling to stay awake. Eight hours without sleep is nothing to him.

The intercom buzzes—this time, he doesn't react. He already knows it's Lochley, it has to be, and there's no point in giving her the upper hand. Wash certainly isn't going to just roll over and let her take control, but he's not quite sure if it's better to resist her openly or just go along with everything.

He glances over to the window and, lo and behold, there she is, staring at him. Something about seeing her sharp expression makes his decision for him. Fuck it. He's going to fight.

 _"You're awake,"_ she mutters, looking unimpressed.

"Are you surprised?" As he speaks, his arms shift until they're crossed over his chest—he's not sure if that's the right move, because the second he does, her eyes hone in on the motion like a hawk.

 _"No."_ Her tone takes on a warmer quality, which coupled with her expression rubs Wash in all the wrong ways. " _Pleased, actually. You recovered from the preliminary tests faster than I expected. I was going to give you a few more hours to recuperate, but it seems you'll be fine. We can talk instead."_

"About what?"

Lochley leans back in her chair and folds her arms. _"I want to know about the tech blackout that occurred while Kittinger was on shift."_

Don't tell Lochley.

The thought hits him so hard that he wonders how he remains upright. Don't tell. Don't tell her, don't, don't, _don't._ His calmness melts away immediately, replaced by the single panicked thought that he can't tell her a goddamn thing.

Wash racks his brain for the source of the thought, looking for any AI interference, but finds nothing. It's so strong, so powerful in his mind, and apparently it's him. There's no AI right now, it's still void, but in this moment that thought is the strongest thing there is. No matter what, he knows that he can't deny it.

_I've gotta hardcode this, okay?_

Hardcoded. HCD. Niner's words click into place. That's what Niner did. She 'hardcoded' the thought that he can't tell Lochley about her. Now it makes sense why she wasn't that worried. Somehow she made it practically impossible to say anything. He doesn't care how, he just knows that she did it.

 _"Agent Washington,"_ Lochley says, grabbing his attention once again. Without him realizing it, he had stumbled back a little bit—but it hardly seems like anything compared to the force of the thoughts. He looks back to her and sees that hawklike stare again. She's watching. Every move is telling her something. He can't keep telling like this.

_"I'll make this simple. You can tell me with or without the AI involved. The choice is yours."_

Don't tell Lochley. There it is again. Don't. Can't, won't.

Something chimes in from a corner of his mind, an obvious idea. Tell Lochley something _else_. Lie. Well, it's easier said than done. He's not exactly known for his poker face. But Lochley can't find out that Niner has an escape plan. He's going to have to try.

Wash shrinks back a few inches, only partly faking it—the idea of having the AI rip his secrets out of him isn't comforting in the slightest. But he lets Lochley zero in on the little movement, watches her mouth twitch up into a victorious smirk.

"No," he mutters, for added effect. He shifts slightly, lets her track him. "Don't. I'll talk."

_"Then start talking."_

"I...I mean, I don't remember much," he says slowly. As he does, he purposely keeps his eyes shifted away from her.

_"...Really. Your vitals show you as lucid the whole time."_

Wash nods. "Yeah, I was awake. I just can't really remember what happened after the malfunction. All I know is that, _before_ the malfunction, something happened and Delta—he just kind of went crazy. Then Kittinger did something and Theta went crazy too, but it was different. That was better. Theta helped."

 _"Curious."_ He looks at her again and sees her furiously jotting notes down on a datapad. _"Do you find Theta's presence comforting?"_

"Not really."

Lochley looks at him again and taps the stylus on her cheek. _"Let me rephrase. Compared to Delta, you find Theta more comforting?"_

"Yes," he says before he can stop himself.

Wash immediately knows that saying that was a mistake when Lochley puts the datapad down and gives him her whole attention.

_"And would you say that, compared to, say, Epsilon, with the familiarity you two share, you would still prefer Theta?"_

That question can't be answered with a simple yes or no. He doesn't say anything—but Lochley must take that as some sort of affirmation because she moves on immediately.

_"Did Kittinger say anything to you while the power was off?"_

"Not that I remember."

_"Nothing about this project, or how long you've been here?"_

"After the AI shut off, I kind of zoned out."

_"Did she try to assist you in any way?"_

He shakes his head, not trusting his words.

_"And why should I believe you?"_

Fuck. That's a hard question. He's not sure if he can be convincing enough with his lies. "Well, you don't have to," he eventually says. "If you really think I'm lying, well." He jerks his head towards the panel. "You're the one with the control."

Wash is no expert on reading emotions, but the little smirk on her face is as telling as if she'd laughed aloud. That was the right thing to say.

 _"Indeed."_ She leans back, keeping her eyes on him. " _Perhaps I should fill you in—after all, we'll be working together for a while. You've been selected for Project ICARUS, one of Charon's ongoing experiments that utilizes AI integration in the creation of a supersoldier. So far, you're the most successful of our candidates."_

He tries not to think about what Niner told him, about the experiments done on the Triplets, but it sticks with him regardless. 

After a beat, Lochley claps her hands together as if summing up her point. _"Well, I think you've answered most of my questions, Washington,"_ she says. Wash doesn't miss the omission of the "Agent". He doesn't particularly like it either. It's too friendly.

"It's not like I have a choice."

 _"No, you don't,"_ she agrees. _"But I'd say we can get onto the good part now."_

He's about to ask what the good part is when Lochley reaches for the Delta switch and pushes it all the way.

Wash is on the floor before he realizes it. Delta rips through his skull without restraint and overflows with information, too much _too much too much_. He screams and grabs at his head, trying to calm down, to breathe, but it's impossible, everything is simplified into data and then played on a vicious loop in his head and there's green, so much green, he can't shut it out no matter how hard he tries.

Lochley comes over the speakers and the pain becomes worse, because now there's a new input and it's only being added to the mess.

_"Interesting. Records show that you held up decently for almost twenty-four minutes under both Delta and Theta states at full power. However, it seems Theta was only there as a counterbalance. Your vitals now, however, are far more erratic than in the previous test. In my opinion, Theta was the only thing keeping you lucid during the ordeal, and its presence was comforting to you and kept you stable. A pacifier. That's a waste of Theta's abilities, if you ask me."_

He knows she's right because Delta has already measured his vitals and confirmed the discrepancy. His heartrate is unsustainable at this point. Delta dissects every word, every rhythm and cadence, every breath and feeds all the information back to Wash ten times over, cramming it into his head like he believes there's somehow enough space for it.

No Theta. Panic sets in immediately. Wash only made it as long as he did before with Theta there, and that was _minutes_. How will he do it alone?

Even Delta doesn't have an answer for that one.

He opens his mouth to speak and immediately snaps it shut, the mere process of generating sound just as bad as hearing Lochley talking. Even breathing is an ordeal, because Delta takes anything that exists and analyzes it to death.

 _"Well,"_ Lochley says after a few seconds, _"this should be an interesting test of your endurance. I'm looking forward to seeing how long you can stay conscious at this rate. I'll see you in the morning, Washington."_

Lochley goes silent and Wash hears the door buzz. She's gone. He tries to stand but can't handle the sensory input and just sits there shaking instead, trying to stabilize his breathing. He wants to get the words out like before but it's not like with Theta, there's no reassurance that everything will be alright, there's just numbers and data. Instead of being forced to handle it, he's free to understand just how horrible it feels.

Trying to get to the window is impossible, it's too far. Instead he slowly moves under the operating table, where the light isn't shining quite as bright. He curls up against the support and buries his head in his hands, trying to think as little as possible and failing.

Time passes. He wish he could lose track of it but Delta won't let him. He closes his eyes but all he sees is a countdown going the wrong way, stretching into the hours, second by second. He tries to hold out hope but it's hard to do when Delta reminds him of the fact that no help will be coming. Delta, frantic and confused and _fucking unhelpful_ , picks through Wash's memories like a field of weeds and digs them all up to the surface, trying to piece together why bad things always seem to happen to Wash, why Wash can't separate his own memories from Epsilon's.

Multiple times, Wash fights through the pain of speaking and begs Delta to stop. Delta never replies. All Wash gets in response is two feelings—Delta is cold and confused. He tries to let go of the data and pass out but Delta won't let his calculations be in vain. He tries to shut him down but Delta doesn't know how to stop, and Wash is just along for the ride.

At some point Delta's confusion is too much, and Wash is grateful when he finally slips into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's four! Thanks so much for the kudos and comments, you guys really make my day!
> 
> So um I also drew a little something for this, my headcanon for [Niner](https://moriorioh-no.tumblr.com/post/158240258219/in-honor-of-the-fourth-chapter-of-how-to-delete)~ I love how stoked you guys all are for this, it's really nice to know that people like what I've been slaving away on :D See you Friday!


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

...

_"—sus, Wash, wake up—"_

Wash wakes up abruptly and jolts to a seated position—then immediately regrets it when his head slams into the bottom of the table.

The first thing he notices is that there's no Delta, no AI right now. If he didn't feel like such shit, he'd sigh of relief. Dazed, he groans and puts a hand to his head, trying again to sit up much more slowly. Jesus. It feels like a train punched him in the face. 

Something feels wet on his fingers and he draws them back, staring dully at the blood they're coated in. That can't be good. That's probably from hitting his head.

He feels his face for any signs of injury and notices a trail of crusted blood on his face leading from his nose. Oh. He doesn't think that's from the table.

Wash looks to the window and Niner is there, staring at him. The night shift. He can't remember how long he was out, but it must've been a while.

 _"Jesus,"_ Niner says. _"You look like shit."_

He manages a chuckle, but it comes out weak and forced. "I feel as bad as I look."

_"Yeah, well, just be happy that Lochley didn't stay. If she did she would've just made it worse."_

He tries to remember what had happened during the test, but comes up pretty much blank. All he remembers is begging for the pain to stop, and that gives him an uncomfortable feeling he doesn't want to think about. "How long was I out?"

_"Nine hours. You almost hit eight with that green piece of shit."_

Seven hours, forty-seven minutes, thirty-eight seconds, eighty-six—

The thought comes out of nowhere, a lance of pain through his temples. Just the time. He doesn't remember anything else.

Wash is immediately wide awake.

Maybe it's a mistake. He wouldn't remember that number, he can barely remember his own birthday sometimes. Besides, there's no way he was in any sort of state to hold onto anything Delta might've told him. It has to be a mistake.

"How long _exactly_?" Wash asks slowly.

Niner frowns and looks at her datapad. _"Um...seven hours, forty-seven minutes, thirty-eight seconds?"_

"Milliseconds?"

_"Wash, why do you—"_

"Please, just...I need to know."

_"Eighty-six. Happy?"_

Wash's internal timer is accurate to a millisecond.

Delta. Delta must still be inside his head. "Is Delta on?"

_"No, I turned him off once I realized you were unconscious."_

That's not good. If it's not Delta, then the thought is his own, but there's no way in hell that he remembered _that_ without Delta telling him. It's almost like—

Wash moves abruptly to the cot and pulls out the pager.

 

**9er**

 

**WHAT**

**hcd means hardcoded right?**

 

**YEAH**

 

**how does it work?**

 

**SIMPLE**

**WELL NOT REALLY**

**I USED THETA TO PERSUADE YOU THAT YOU COULDN'T TELL LOCHLEY ABOUT ME**

**IT ONLY WORKS WHEN ITS AT 100 THO**

**THETAS REACTION TO MY WARNING ENDED UP BEING IMPRINTED ON YOUR BRAIN**

**KINDA LIKE AN UNBREAKABLE RULE**

 

**is there any way delta couldve accidentally hcd something**

 

**I GUESS**

**FUCK**

**IS THAT HOW YOU KNEW THE TIME**

 

**its the only thing i remember**

**he mustve repeated it so much that it imprinted**

**please tell me lochley doesn't know about this**

 

**IF SHE DOESNT SHE WILL SOON**

**I HEARD HER TELLING HARGROVE THAT SHE WOULD INTERROGATE YOU SOMETIME TMW**

 

Interrogate. That word has a whole new meaning when the AI are involved.

 

**cant you do something to block her?**

 

**NO**

**I DONT HAVE CLEARANCE TO USE THE PANEL TONIGHT**

 

**what if she hcs me to tell her everything?**

**will your hc hold up?**

 

**HOW SHOULD I KNOW**

**ITS NOT LIKE IVE TESTED ANY OF THIS BEFORE**

**I BASICALLY WINGED IT**

**UH**

**WASH**

**YOURE SHAKING**

**I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE**

**ARE YOU COLD**

 

**fucking freezing**

**not exactly in the best state of mind either**

**did you know that delta is always cold**

**i dont get it**

**hes made of light**

 

**WASH LISTEN**

**LOCHLEY WILL FIND OUT ABOUT HARDCODING**

**SHE WILL USE IT**

**WELL BE OUT IN SIX DAYS BUT SHELL HC YOU EVERY CHANCE SHE GETS**

**UNTIL THEN YOU HAVE TO STALL**

**DONT GIVE HER ANY EXCUSE TO USE 100**

**PLAY NICE**

**OTHERWISE SHELL TURN YOU INTO CHARONS PUPPET**

 

Wash gulps.

 

**joy**

 

**HOLD ON**

**GIVE ME TEN MINUTES**

 

She leaves the control room and Wash waits, nervously, but thankfully it's his own discomfort. Time is completely lost on him, save for Delta's rogue number that won't get out of his head. He waits, yawns, shivers, fills the time with any movement that will distract him from the seven hours, forty-seven, thirty-eight—

The door clicks open—the _outside_ door, the one to the hallway—and Niner pokes her head through and tosses a bundle of grey cloth at him. A sweater. It's huge, he can barely hold it in both hands without it spilling over the sides.

"Here," she says. "It's Maine's. He left it on my ship once, and somehow I managed to hold onto it. Might as well give it to you."

Wash looks down at the sweater with a new level of reverence and slips it over his fatigues. Now that he thinks about it, he recognizes it. Maine used to wear it after training sessions.

Huge is right. Once it's completely on, it hangs almost to his knees, and Niner snorts with laughter. "I'm sorry, Wash, but with that thing you look like such a fuckboy, you have no idea."

He doesn't really care. He's warm and the sweater is Maine's. He's content, for now at least.

"Thank you. For the sweater, not...the other part."

She salutes him silently and leaves, entering the control room and sitting back down. _"Well, you should be fine now, I guess, so just get some rest."_

Wash doesn't feel fine, but he _does_ feel warm, and that's pretty close. He sits quietly on the cot and bunches up the sweater until it's like he's hugging a pillow, and he eventually dozes off that way.

...

Wash is jolted from sleep by a nightmare. He splutters awake and sits upright, taking a few seconds to breathe before he looks over to the control room.

 _"Enjoy your beauty sleep?"_ Lochley says dryly, peering over her glasses like she's been staring for hours.

He doesn't respond, just stares back. He's still shaken by the nightmare, though he can't exactly remember what it was about. It's been a while since he hasn't remembered a nightmare in perfect detail.

 _"I have a few more questions for you today, though..."_ Lochley's eyes narrow. _"One seems more pressing than the others. How did you get that sweater?"_

Wash instinctively grips the sleeves in his fists. "Kittinger gave it to me. It's pretty cold in here, if you can believe it."

 _"Of course. Your implants are delicate equipment and require a temperature of roughly thirty degrees Fahrenheit to function most effectively. I don't see a problem with you keeping the sweater though. Just don't give me a reason to change my mind."_ Then Lochley gives him a once over, nose slightly crinkled in disgust. _"You're filthy. Go clean up."_

He shoots her a glare and then stands, going to the back of the room where there's a small faucet. Fully aware that she's watching his every move, he doesn't waste time and washes the dried blood off of his face and from his hair. A little bit of blood has dried on the sweater, but he doesn't want to take the sweater off so he just uses the remaining time to try and scrub the blood out of the cloth.

_"Are you done?"_

This time he stops himself from retorting, remembering Niner's warning. Play nice.

"Yeah. I'm done."

He runs his hands through his hair to shake out the water but it doesn't do much, so he decides to just leave it as it is. He returns to the table without saying anything else, hopping up silently and glaring her way.

_"Excellent. You know, Washington, I've been thinking about the conversation we had yesterday."_

"Which one? The one where you asked me about things I didn't remember or the one where you talked _at_ me while Delta tried to tear my brain apart?"

She chuckles. _"When your records said melodramatic, they were serious. I'm referring more to the first one—where I asked you why I should believe you, and you told me I was in control to do whatever I deemed necessary."_

"What's your point?"

_"My point is that I don't believe you. So we're going to try this again, only this time, I'm going to do what I deem necessary."_

Wash goes rigid as Lochley moves the Theta switch—not all the way up, but high. He feels Theta reaching for him with reassurances, with comfort, but he does his best to push it all away. Now that he knows what's going on, he's less disconcerted by Theta's presence. Ironically, he has to fight to keep himself from feeling calm.

 _"Different, isn't it?"_ Lochley muses. _"Awareness really changes your perspective. I wonder what it is that you're fighting so hard to hide."_

Don't tell Lochley. He lets that thought run rampant, because right now it's the only thing he can really trust.

_"Now, let's try this again. What happened during the tech blackout?"_

"I told you," he grits out, struggling to keep his voice level. "I don't remember."

Theta flickers with disapproval in the recesses of his mind but it's fine, because the hardcoded thought is the one that's sticking more than anything else. Don't tell. He won't.

She moves the switch further and the world becomes hazier. Wash starts to panic when he feels himself slipping, feels himself losing his grip on the hardcoded thought, and Theta calmly takes his panic and tosses it aside. The void grows deeper in his head and Theta slowly stretches in to fill the gap. No, no. Okay. Okay— _no._

_"Washington, I'm giving you one last chance to answer me freely. What did Kittinger say to you?"_

"I...I don't remember."

Lochley tuts disappointedly and pushes the switch all the way up.

Everything is gone. Wash goes blank immediately, every thought being ripped away with no notice. His muscles relax against his will and he slouches forward slightly, feeling oddly comfortable. All that remains in his mind is the void and the lone island within it, the "don't tell Lochley" island, but even that seems so far away.

_"Describe to me, in detail, exactly what happened when the tech blackout occurred."_

Wash wants to panic, wants to worry about whether Lochley will find out or not, but Theta won't let him.

And then, the unthinkable happens.

"I don't know."

The lie comes as easily as breathing. Even under complete Theta control, Niner's hardcode still holds up.

Lochley frowns and asks again, and Wash witnesses a miracle as he gives her the same lie twice in a row. Then she asks the rest of the questions and he gives the same answers, taking silent glee in her confusion.

When she finally turns off Theta, Wash has a hard time keeping his smirk under wraps. "Satisfied?"

The glare she gives him is priceless. _"Not in the slightest. But a disappointing yield is hardly the most interesting thing I have in store for ICARUS. I actually have a few more questions for you, but I'm not quite sure how to tackle them."_

She pauses for a second, pacing behind the panel, then looks back at him. _"What's the highest level mathematics course you've taken, Washington?"_

The question comes so far out of left field that he doesn't quite catch it in time. He leans forward slightly, forgetting to act defiant. "...I'm sorry, what?"

Lochley raises her eyebrows and says, _"I want to know what the most advanced mathematics course you've taken is."_

It seems like a fairly innocent question—it's not worth fighting her on. Wash shrugs noncommittally. "I took a precalc class in senior year. Didn't do too well."

_"And besides Freelancer, you haven't had much exposure to any STEM field since."_

"What, like the sciences? Yeah, no, just Freelancer."

_"Are you aware of the spike of brain activity that Delta causes in you every time I activate it?"_

He scoffs. "I'm aware."

_"Have you noticed any lasting effects?"_

_Seven forty-seven thirty-eight eighty-six—_

Wash flinches unconsciously at the thought, immediately realizing his mistake.

He just told Lochley.

She doesn't give him time to panic. Latching onto his error immediately, Lochley raises Theta again and shoots from her seat. _"There. What was that?"_

His fingers wrap around the edge of the table and he tries to ground his thoughts but Theta is pulling him off-balance. Don't tell Lochley. Wash fights with every ounce of strength that he has, but the hardcode doesn't apply to this and he can't keep quiet.

"I-I—"

She raises Theta even further, her voice taking on a steely edge. _"Washington, describe what just happened."_

The words pour from his mouth before he can catch them. "I remembered a number—seven hours, forty-seven minutes, thirty-eight seconds and eighty-six milliseconds. It's the—"

_"How long you remained conscious yesterday, I know. You showed similar investment in the same number during the night shift. How did you know it?"_

He tries to evade, pulling against Theta's relentless tug. "I didn't. Delta did—"

_"Be more specific."_

Fuck. "When you turned him on yesterday, he had a timer running for how long I stayed conscious. He kept repeating it so many times that it stuck."

He looks at her eyes and they are hungry and victorious. She's going to get it. She's going to know what hardcoding is. Wash wants so badly to panic or do something besides just helping her figure it out, but he can't.

_"It stuck with you. Meaning?"_

"It was the only thing I remembered."

_"So Delta's thoughts were imprinted on you, like some sort of hardcode. And nothing else has stuck like that?"_

She even got the right word. "No."

Lochley stares at him silently, and Wash can see the gears turning in her head until they click.

_"...I see. Thank you for being so helpful, Washington."_

Wash doesn't reply. Even when she turns off Theta and returns her attention to her datapad, he doesn't do anything more than glare at her. A part of him is terrified of what she can do with the information he just gave her—but if he shows that terror, she'll use it against him.

He starts to slide off the edge of the table when Lochley zeroes back in on him. _"Don't move. There are still tests to run."_

A moment later, she stands and slides her datapad under the door. _"Pick it up and tell me if you recognize it."_

Wash gets up, picks up the datapad and stares at the webpage it's open to. There's a picture—it looks like a five-year-old scribbled a shitty circle and filled it in. Following that is a short paragraph of mathematical-sounding words that don't look very promising. He's not an idiot by any means, but staring at this page reminds him exactly why he didn't pursue STEM fields any further than precalc.

"Never seen this before in my life."

 _"As expected. That is Jordan's curve theorem,"_ she says. _"A classic. Deceptively difficult to prove. I would never expect you to solve it—I haven't."_

"Do you honestly think I can—"

Wash stops abruptly as Lochley pushes Delta all the way up. He's not prepared by any means, but this time he's at least able to keep himself from screaming. Instead he grips tight to the datapad, determined not to drop it.

_"Don't be ridiculous, you're not nearly intelligent enough on your own. But I know Delta can do it. You have the rest of the day to complete this proof. When you finish, I'll turn Delta off. I suggest you start right away—the shortest proof I've heard of is over six thousand lines long."_

Then she sits back down and takes off her headset entirely.

Fuck. Everything hurts. He's a bit more accustomed to the data influx this time, but it still hits hard. How the hell is he supposed to do this? Delta's the smart one, not him. He's got to work with Delta or this will end up just like last time.

Wash closes his eyes and tries to focus on Delta, feeling through the green for anything that might get him closer to talking with the fragment. He does his best to clear a path through the information and, after searching for nearly three minutes, finally feels something unique. It's kind of like a buzzing feeling. It feels...huh. It's not like the rest of the data he keeps absorbing. It almost feels good. He kind of likes it.

Delta reacts to him for the first time, flashing in his mind. The tide of data ebbs for a moment.

_Hello, Agent Washington. Do you need something? I am very confused._

_Yeah, you and me both. What is this feeling?_

_I would like to try the theorem._

_Is that what this is? Your...your drive or something?_

_I would like to try._

_Sure, go for it, just stop all the data first._

_I cannot. It is out of my power. However, I can utilize it better than you can, and I believe it will be to the benefit of both of us if I do so._

_Oh. Well, okay then. Do your thing._

_Acknowledged._

The shift of control is immediate. Wash stops trying to do anything to resist the data and lets Delta absorb it all instead, and suddenly Wash sees answers. He looks back down at the datapad and sees a spiral web of connections, of words and numbers that all extend outward from the screen. It's nowhere near a full answer to the theorem, but it's a colossal step forward from before.

Suddenly Wash knows what to do.

He opens a new page and starts working.

...

Lochley lied.

She doesn't turn off Delta.

Halfway through the proof, Wash gets up and realizes she's gone.

The second he finishes and slides the tablet back under her door, Delta freaks out and throws Wash back into control again—only now the data is hitting Wash at full force and he can't do anything to get Delta to stop it.

Neither of them bothers with fighting for very long, and in a few minutes, Wash is out cold.

...

He wakes again to find Delta gone. This time he waits a second to figure out where he is before he sits up. Under the window this time—no chance of an accidental concussion.

Wash groans and sits up, checking for blood and coming up short. Guess it's better to just give up sooner rather than fight.

_"Excellent work on the proof, Washington."_

Wash freezes. Lochley. She shouldn't be here now, it should be Niner.

_"If you're wondering where Kittinger is, she's been excused for the night. I have tests to run. She'll handle you for all of tomorrow and run your physical tests in the meanwhile."_

He shifts so he can see her, watching judgmentally from the controls.

_"Tell me honestly, Washington. Do you remember any of the experiment from before you passed out?"_

"Jordan," he says immediately, the words coming to mind. That's not good. "Jordan's curve theorem."

_"Yes. Well, this morning was only half of my test. Take the datapad next to you."_

He grumbles and takes it. It's blank.

_"You have seven minutes to recreate the entire proof verbatim. If you don't manage it or try to falsify results, not only will you be doing the entire proof again, but I promise that your next tests will be as excruciating as physically possible. I wouldn't worry too much, though. If my theory is right, you'll do swimmingly."_

The whole thing. That's thousands of lines. Wash's vision swims for a second, and he looks back to her, incredulous. "What if your theory is wrong?"

She smiles coldly. _"Then we keep testing until it's right."_

Not good. She has him backed into a corner.

" _Ten seconds. Then you start."_

Not good at all. How is he going to do this? He needs Delta, but Lochley won't let Wash use him. Wash is stuck, unless he remembers it.

Well, does he remember it?

In the space of an instant, the entire thing comes back to him.

 _...Fuck._ Lochley figured it out. And there's no way to hide it from her without subjecting himself to the whole ordeal again.

When Lochley tells him to start, he does, writing the proof down without having to stop to fix a single typo. He works silently and angrily, not needing to say anything, just copying down what he sees in his head. Even though Delta's not there, he can still feel the connections, can still see the web of answers, and he fucking hates that it's there.

He finishes with a few seconds to spare and slides the datapad back to Lochley with a little more force than necessary. "You happy?"

Lochley picks up the datapad and scrolls through the information quickly, her smirk growing every second. _"Well, Washington, I've just found the missing tool that Project ICARUS needed in order to progress. I am positively ecstatic."_

Oh, man, that's not good.

 _"For the remainder of the night, I think I'm going to retest something,"_ she says suddenly. _"I'm curious as to how two AI will affect you in tandem."_

Lochley activates Theta and Wash doesn't get a chance to ask her what she's doing. This time he goes along with it—after all, it's not so bad. He's used to Theta by now. He's okay.

That is, he's okay until he sees the blue.

Eta.

Wash screams and grabs at his head as Eta throws Theta out of the way and pushes into every corner of Wash's mind with pure, unhinged fear. Theta fights back furiously to gain control but Eta is too far gone, and Wash is afraid, he's terrified, and he can't stop feeling that way no matter how hard he fights.

Lochley taps on the headset to get his attention and Wash scrambles away from the window, pressing against the table as if hoping he might disappear into it.

"Stop," he begs, and he hates himself for begging, but he can't handle it alone. " _Please,_ turn it off."

 _"Don't be so pathetic, Washington,"_ Lochley tuts. _"This is nothing more than a test."_

Wash shakes his head frantically, sinking down to his knees. _"Please,"_ he whispers, but he doubts she hears it.

She leans forward against the glass and taps the headset again.

_"Agent Washington, listen to me."_

_Listen_. Theta latches onto the order for just long enough to redirect Wash's attention.

_"Charon Industries needs you right now. We depend on you. And if you do anything to go against us, I can promise you that you will regret it."_

He almost _feels_ the hardcode this time, a searing heat that burns across his mind and rips a scream from him again. Eta has dimmed only slightly but is talking to him faster now, repeating the warning like a mantra—but without Theta's guidance Eta can't keep the thought on track and the paranoia escalates. _Don't do it. It's too dangerous. You'll regret it. They'll do something, they'll hurt you. Kill you, your friends, everyone you love, and take them from you, turn you into something you never wanted to be, force you to do whatever they want and you won't be able to stop them you won't they'll never let you win Wash you'll never win—_

Theta resurfaces once more to remind him of one word—she _promised._

At some point Lochley leaves. He moves under the table and presses his back against the support, trying to calm down, but it's impossible. His breathing gets erratic, his eyes sting with tears, his mind travels farther and farther from possibility and loses the little grip on sanity it has.

_She promised Wash they'll kill you don't resist Lochley she'll do anything to keep you in line you can't tell Lochley you can't do anything they'll kill you what if something happens to you what happens to us where will we go what will they do to us what if they try it again who will they hurt next you have to end this she promised she'd do it you have to trust her you know what she's capable of she won't stop you know she won't you know—_

Wash just wants it to end. He wants to let go but Eta is, if possible, more insistent than Delta that Wash stays conscious and with him. Wash tries to help. After all, the pain he feels isn't just his own. He does his best to reach out to Theta and promise Eta that everything will be all right, but Eta won't buy it, Eta just screams and screams and screams and even with Theta's help Wash can't handle it.

Time loses its grip on Wash. He spends hours, maybe minutes, maybe days, waiting for someone to come and save him, but help doesn't come.

He stops processing Eta's cries for help eventually, stops trying, lets Theta fall into the background. As Eta wanes, so does Wash. He ends up slumped against the support, semiconscious, mind numb, eyes unfocused and blurred with tears, the screams echoing in his head.

When the lights go on in the other room, Wash barely reacts, figuring that it must be Niner. His eyes don't seem to want to focus, but the silhouette he sees doesn't look like Lochley, so that shouldn't worry him so much.

But when a pair of armored mercs walks into _his_ room, Wash immediately panics.

He scrambles out from under the table and away from them, only panicking more when he notices that their guns are pointed directly at his chest. Eta springs back to full fear and starts whispering warnings to him, yells at him to run, to do something, to _move,_ but the mercs are there and it's impossible and terrifying and Wash can't do anything but stare.

Niner sprints from the other room and positions herself between Wash and the mercs. "Are you two fucking _idiots?!_ That's not helping!"

"We're not here to help," one of them snaps, readying his gun, but Niner steps directly in front of the weapon.

"If you want to shoot either of us, that's fine," she snaps back. "Then _I_ won't have to be the one to explain to Lochley why her tests weren't completed and we lost half a billion dollars in technology."

The mercs share a look before lowering their guns a few inches. "Go," the other one growls, gesturing with the muzzle to Wash's shaking figure. "Handle him before I do."

Niner stares them down for a moment more before rushing over to Wash. In his panic, Wash barely notices her until she's kneeling in front of him. She puts her hands on his shoulders and Wash instinctively shoves her away.

"Wash," she begins, but Wash is already shaking his head.

"It's too much," he mumbles, trying hard not to tremble and failing. "I—I can't—"

"Look, I know they're messing you up, I know, Wash, but you have to relax."

"I can't, I-I can't shut them out, it hurts so _bad,_ Niner, I want it to stop."

"...What are you talking about?"

"Eta, and Theta, I can't, I _can't_ ," he stammers, trailing off and sinking further into his sweater as he continues to shake.

Silence hangs in the air for a few seconds. Niner's expression becomes unreadable as she looks at him, and after what feels like an eternity she moves her hands back onto his shoulders.

"Wash," Niner says, more firmly, "the AI are off."

"...What?"

"They're off, I just turned them off. Wash, listen, you need to calm down, okay? Just try and breathe."

No, no, that can't be right. Frantic, he probes his mind for Eta and Theta but he doesn't _feel_ them _._ All he feels is what's left behind.

_He didn't notice them leave._

He doesn't _want_ to think about what that could mean—but he's too far over the edge right now to shut down his paranoia. He didn't notice they were gone, that can't be good, _can't_ be good. If he didn't notice it, then that meant he was still thinking as if they were there. He was thinking as if he wasn't the one in control.

The panic hits a little harder this time.

"Wash."

He looks back at Niner and her eyes are wide, worried. She shakes her head silently, almost imperceptibly, then subtly nods towards the guards. He doesn't miss the warning. If he panics, they'll know. He doesn't want to think about how likely they are to shoot him if he acts up.

He forces himself to calm down—years of training, augmented by Niner's oddly calming presence—and gets partway there.

Niner stands slowly, hands in pockets as she gestures to the mercs. "These guards are escorting us to the next testing center. It's going to be fine. Alright?"

It takes him a moment to reply, "Yeah."

"Yeah," she echoes. "Well, c'mon. The sooner we start, the sooner you're done."

Wash stands silently but doesn't move off the wall, keeping his back firmly against it.

One of the mercs comes forward and pulls a pair of handcuffs off his belt, and Wash reluctantly holds his hands out to let the merc lock the cuffs in place.

For the first time, the mercs completely lower their guns. Both of them exit the cell, Niner following and holding the door open.

After a very shaky breath, Wash follows her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D See you next week 
> 
> (also sorry for being a little late, enjoy)


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

...

There are still plasma burns on the walls.

Wash walks silently, the two mercs each at his side with their guns casually pointed his direction. He still feels anxious. So he focuses on the plasma marks to distract himself, marveling in the precise burns left by the blade. It's nice in a weird way, that they didn't bother to remove them. Wash could use something familiar.

He knows exactly where he is, which is somewhat of a relief. This is the eighth floor, north end. Detention cells. Near where his _last_ detention cell was when he was onboard.

Niner is somewhere a few paces behind him. He wishes he could look at her for reassurance, but he doesn't want to test the guards' patience.

Not for the first time, he realizes that he doesn't know why he's not trying to escape. He should be. If everything is so bad, why is he just going along with it?

He thinks about it a little harder this time, now that he knows at least his actual location. Could it work? Well, he feels horrible right now. He's hungry, tired, anxious, cold. He's handcuffed. He doubts he can take out either of the guards. They're pretty heavily armed, but they're only wearing light armor, so if he had a gun... No, the other merc would shoot him before he could disarm either of them. It's impossible.

The four of them reach an elevator, one of the mercs stepping in first. Then the other merc shoves Wash forward hard enough that he slams face-first into the back wall. Wash yelps in surprise and massages his nose as Niner and the other guard join him—he can already feel the bruise forming.

Wash doesn't say anything as Niner closes the elevator door and presses the button for the fourth floor. He remembers some combat training areas there. That must be the physical testing Lochley was referring to.

The elevator hums and starts to go down with a jolt, hard enough that everyone stumbles a little—and then chaos ensues.

Niner moves faster than Wash has ever seen her move and pulls a pistol out of her coat pocket, shooting one of the mercs through the visor. Before his corpse can even hit the floor, Niner lifts the gun and presses it against the other guard's helmet.

"Keys."

Wash watches, stupefied, as the guard tosses her the handcuff keys and his hands go up with a swear. Niner reaches into her other pocket, withdraws a taser, and nails the guard right in the fucking throat. He shudders violently and collapses, knocked out instantly.

She slams a hand on the emergency brake and the elevator stops with a screech, then turns to Wash and starts fiddling with his cuffs.

The second the cuffs are unlocked, Wash stumbles backwards, trying to process what just happened.

" _Whaat_ the fuck," Wash stammers, brain running in a million different directions. He runs his hands through his hair in awe as Niner sheds her labcoat and reveals the pilot suit underneath.

"Get dressed," she says, nudging the unconscious guard with her foot. "You're too obvious in fatigues."

"Wh—we're doing this _now_?!" 

"Yep. I thought I could wait a week, but..." She frowns. "Well, look at you. It's only been _two days_ , and this is as far as I let them screw with you. I'm getting us both out of here today."

_You'll regret it._

"...Wash?" She snaps her fingers, breaking him away from the thought. "We don't have all fucking eternity here."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, right."

Wash strips, including Maine's sweater, and changes into the merc's undersuit. It's a pretty good fit—comfortable too. He gets why Carolina never went back to her old armor. He puts the helmet on before he even puts on the rest of the armor and makes sure the HUD works, exhaling in relief when a location marker pops onto the display. God, he's missed knowing where he was. He doesn't even mind that the helmet is shaped all wrong and disconcerting, it feels good to have something protective again.

When he locks the last piece of armor into place, Wash feels more like himself than he has in a while.

Niner takes Maine's sweater and ties it around her shoulders, then hands Wash one of the mercs' rifles. "Be ready."

"Right."

She presses the brake again and the elevator squeaks to life—only this time, she hits the button for the second floor. There's a small hangar there, if he remembers correctly, large enough for a single Pelican.

The elevator reaches the second floor quickly and Niner takes the lead, even though Wash knows where they're going just as well as she does. There are a lot of people. The two of them move as fast as they can without drawing attention to themselves, Wash keeping a tight grip on the gun as they pass by dozens of nameless soldiers and technicians. He's certain the entire time that someone will notice them, will make a scene and get them caught, but nothing happens.

The two of them duck into a side hallway where the lights are dim and sticking to the shadows is easy. "Three guards inside," Niner says, finally stopping at the door of the hangar. "Make it fast, would you?"

He nods and raises the rifle.

She keys open the door and he spots them immediately and pulls the trigger, one-two-three, taking them all out before they even notice he's there. Wash is surprised that he does so well, considering that he's sorely out of practice.

There's a single Pelican in the hangar, just like he thought. Niner sprints ahead and rushes to a computer terminal, typing at a speed he didn't think was possible, while Wash keeps an eye on the hangar door. It's pointless to watch—his motion trackers are getting practically nothing right now on the entire floor. This feels too easy. His HUD says that it's early morning right now—that probably explains why nobody is awake enough to notice that they're escaping. That's probably the reason. There has to be a reason.

A triumphant chuckle from Niner tells him that she's done, and Wash hears the ramp drop. "Let's go," she says. 

Wash closes the hangar door and follows her onboard, pulling off his helmet. As Niner raises the ramp and turns on the lights, he takes a seat on the floor and exhales, hard. "That was way too easy."

"Yeah, well, don't jinx it." She exhales hard too, checking some sort of panel on the wall in front of him. Wash suddenly catches a glimpse of the dark circles under her eyes.

"...Hey, Niner?"

"Yeah?"

"When was the last time you slept?"

She doesn't look at him. "Relax, it's only been a few days. I'm fine."

Well, _that_ sounds familiar. He doesn't push it—after all, he's just as exhausted.

Niner rummages in a storage compartment on the wall and pulls out two MREs, tossing one to Wash, who tears it open without restraint and scarfs it down. She sets hers down and looks around in the storage a little more, pocketing a few small objects he can't quite see from this angle.

"Hey, what's that?" he asks.

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing."

After another minute or so of searching, she withdraws a helmet from the compartment and puts it on immediately. It's both strange and comforting to see her wearing a helmet again—he's gotten used to seeing her face. Plus now he can't stop wondering how she somehow fits her hair in there.

"We're a little far from the atmosphere," Niner says, her voice coming in staticky through the helmet. "It should take us about nine hours to reach Crash Site Alpha, so we should settle in for the ride."

"How long until Lochley figures out we're gone?"

She scoffs. "Lochley's still sleeping—it's her day off, remember? I was supposed to take you in for testing. Nobody will know until she wakes up, and that could be hours from now."

" _Could_ be?" Wash echoes.

"Yeah. That's why we'd better get out of here. I'm going into the cockpit."

Wash stands, stowing his gun. "I'll join y—"

"Actually," she interrupts, sounding odd, "you have to stay here. It's not really... Ah, fuck, no point in lying. I have to lock you in."

Alarms immediately go off in his head, but he forces himself not to react to them. Instead his gaze travels to her hand, palm outstretched like a stop sign. She's blocking him.

"...Why?" he says slowly.

"Look at it from my position," she argues. "I'm manually piloting a spaceship for nine hours with a sleeper soldier who could probably benchpress me. Imagine what happens to _either_ of us if the ship can send the control panel's signals this far."

Wash steps back, body immediately going rigid. "You think it can reach me if I'm not on the ship?"

"I don't know, but...I can't risk it. Wash, what Hargrove has done to you can put a lot of people in danger. That's why we have to get you to someone who can fix it."

He understands where she's coming from. But not one inch of him is comfortable with being locked in the cargo bay for nine hours, knowing that he might potentially lose control of himself in the process. He's never felt particularly claustrophobic before, but right now he feels like he'd rather suffocate than be here.

_This is a bad idea,_ something whispers in his head, and he latches onto it hungrily, the only thing making sense. This is a terrible idea. This whole thing can go wrong in so many ways, he can barely begin to count them. 

A strange part of Wash wants to go back to his cell and sit down, waiting for Lochley to come in and run another test. At least that way, he knows he'll be the only one suffering, instead of putting others in danger.

"This isn't right," he says, the words feeling dull in his mouth. "Maybe we shouldn't..."

Niner is silent for a second before she replies. "Are you _actually_ fucking with me?"

"I don't want to put others at risk for me, Niner. I don't want to put _you_ at—"

"Motherfucker," she says, eyes wide. "Lochley hardcoded you with Eta, didn't she?! She fucking planted that thought in your head so you would try to sabotage _yourself!_ "

"I'm not—" Wash stops suddenly and backs away when Niner pulls out her pistol and points it at him. " _Jesus_ _fuck_?! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Listen to me, Wash," Niner snaps, her back to the cockpit. "This isn't you speaking. It's Lochley. _She_ did this to you. That's exactly why you have to stay here."

"Niner—"

She holds out her other hand. "Give me your gun."

"No."

"Wash," she repeats, very clearly angry, "give me your fucking gun or I _swear_ to God, I will tase you in the throat too. _"_

He swears and unstraps it, holding it out to her by the barrel. Niner snatches it away and attaches it to her own armor.

"Knives and pistol too."

Wash detaches the knives on the merc's armor and hands them over silently, then the pistol on his hip.

Niner's eyes narrow as she slowly backs away, going through the doorway without once taking her eyes off of him. "Keep the armor on. I'm monitoring your vitals through the suit."

"Please, don't do this," he says, but she's already closed the door between them and Wash hears magnetic locks clang into place.

That scared part of Wash, the part that unconditionally _has_ to get out of here, turns immediately to the ramp and hits the button to lower it, but it doesn't work. He tries again and again, feeling more frustrated and trapped and panicked every time.

_"Wash, stop it,"_ she says over the speakers. _"It's not you."_

"You don't understand, I _have_ to get out, Nin—"

He's cut off as the ship jerks forward and he's thrown against the window, watching as the Pelican zooms from the hangar and the Staff of Charon gets smaller and smaller, a lone grey star against the immutable blackness of space. Ohh no, no.

Suddenly Wash is acutely aware of the vacuum around him and it's terrifying, he's stranded here in a metal box with no control over where he's going or what he could potentially do. He puts his back to the window and tries not to think about space but he's already too scared to stop.

"Niner," he whispers, voice wavering, "I don't think I can do this."

_"Yes, you can. Where's the Agent Washington I know, huh? The stubborn ass who could do anything he set his mind to. You can handle a few scary hours in space."_

"I don't think I can," he repeats.

_"You're going to have to try."_ There's a sigh over the speakers. _"Wash, you're going to absolutely hate me for this when you're back to normal, but I'm releasing a sedative into the bay's air supply. Hopefully this will help."_

No. She can't do that. He can't be sedated, he _can't_. He doesn't want to lose control, he's lost enough already.

"Niner, _please_ ," he begs, but he already hears the air vents whirring and knows that she's already done it.

_"There's a window in the cockpit door,"_ she supplies unhelpfully. _"And I'll leave the speaker on the whole time. Like you're in the cockpit with me. If you get knocked out, I'll switch back to the regular air supply. You'll probably wake up when we're a couple hours out."_

"Please—"

The strength of the sedative hits him hard and he stumbles, grabbing one of the seats to slow his fall to the ground. His vision swims, balance all but gone. 

_Helmet_ , he thinks desperately. _Air filtration_. He tries to reach for it and his body barely responds, movements lethargic. His fingers brush the helmet's surface, but when he tries to pick it up he loses his grip and it goes tumbling silently across the floor. Every sound grows hushed, dampened, and for a moment, Wash doesn't think of anything—

...

He wakes up to Christmas music.

For a second, he doesn't bother with thinking. He just lays there, listening to some ancient musicians riff over words he hasn't heard in years. It's awfully tinny through the speakers.

Speakers. The ship speakers. He's in space. Right.

He wonders why he's waking up when he doesn't remember going to sleep in the first place.

Wait, no. Not sleeping. Drugged. _Sedated._ He shudders slightly, just the word itself making him uncomfortable. Even before Freelancer, he'd never liked sedatives—but with Freelancer came Epsilon, and with Epsilon came memories and nightmares, horrible nightmares that landed him in hospitals so many times he can't count them all. Every doctor always insisted that sedatives would help, but that was bullshit. Sure, they make him sleep. But sleep is just another word for being trapped in his nightmares.

He feels violated just thinking about it, about his consciousness taken from him against his will. But at the very least, there were no dreams this time. Just, one second awake, the next, awake somewhere else. That's a slight comfort at best.

Feeling a little more awake, Wash gives himself a moment to readjust to his surroundings. Same ship, nothing but gray and more gray. He wasn't staring at the ceiling before—oh, he's on the floor, that's why. His body feels weirdly oversupported by the armor he's wearing, and at this angle his neck is killing him. Still, he's so exhausted that he prefers to just stay on the floor rather than move.

The ridiculousness of the music hits him hard for a second and he sighs, exasperated. "Jesus Christ."

_"Got a problem with my taste in music, Wash?"_

Niner. He feels a swell of anger that dies down as quickly as it comes, leaving him winded with its sudden intensity. 

Wash closes his eyes and breathes, _one two one two_ to the rhythm of the ship's mechanical hums _,_ and then sighs. "I didn't think it was Christmas," he mutters dully.

_"It's not. I don't even celebrate it, the music just keeps me awake."_

"You don't?"

_"What, do you?"_

That's fair. He doesn't think he's actually celebrated Christmas since...probably before joining the UNSC. Maybe once or twice during Freelancer—but seeing as he usually took those rare holidays as a chance to get blackout drunk and forget anything he didn't want to remember, that never felt much like a celebration.

_"Anyway, it's good to see you awake...kind of,"_ Niner says. _"You feeling better back there?"_

Good question. He sits up slowly, moaning under his breath. At this point, it's hard to separate physical and mental discomfort. But the AI don't seem to be there, so that's a start. Plus, he doesn't feel the same desperation from before. It's dialed itself down to mild paranoia, and that's nothing he can't handle.

"I think so," he ventures. "How long was I out?"

_"Almost six hours. Sorry."_

"I'm sure you are."

She chuckles humorlessly. _"I'd do it again if I had to. Knocking you out could've saved both of our lives if Charon had located us."_

If. So Charon didn't find them yet. Jesus, this kind of luck feels impossible. Wash looks out the back window, expecting a ship to be right on their tail, but all that's there is the twinkling blackness of space.

That strange claustrophobic feeling hits him again, potent and without warning. He looks away from the window sharply, his gut suddenly writhing at the idea of being trapped.

"Niner?" he says, forcing his voice to stay level.

_"Yeah, Wash?"_

"How much longer?"

_"About three hours."_

"And I still can't come up there."

There's a pause. _"Wash, you understand why, right?"_

"No, yeah, I do, it's just...not great."

_"Sorry. But hey, if it makes you feel any better, we're almost within direct communications range of the planet. Plus I haven't heard anything over the Charon channel about us. So if you sit tight for an hour or so, we'll be able to contact your friends, and we might make it out of this shitstorm alive."_

Contact. Even the simple idea of seeing the Reds and Blues makes Wash feel better. His mind wanders to the good memories—the days in the canyon, the days on the run, waking up in the snow to find himself surrounded by allies. Wash wants to be with them again, and he doesn't ever want to leave.

He takes that feeling and fills up every gap the void has left in his head, until all he can think and see and believe in is the good times. It's a good feeling.

Wash closes his eyes and hums his acknowledgement, and the ship drones on. The two of them sit through a few more ancient holiday songs before Niner breaks the silence.

_"What's Lina like?"_

"Hm?"

_"Carolina,"_ Niner says. _"Is she still the same?"_

There's a strange note in her tone that Wash can't place. "Not really."

_"How?"_

"She's..." He thinks for a second. "She's nicer. More tired."

_"I feel like we're all more tired."_

Wash couldn't agree more.

_"You think she'll recognize me?"_

He shrugs. "I did."

_"Your friends won't, though."_

"Probably not."

_"Have you ever mentioned me to them before?"_

"No. I don't talk about Freelancer when I don't have to."

_"Not even the good parts?"_

"Well, sometimes. But you never came up."

_"So I'm not one of the good parts?"_

"Debatable."

The silence engulfs them both again, the only sounds coming from the monotonous hum of the engines and the quiet beeps of the control panel behind the door.

"I met a pilot," he says suddenly.

_"Ooh. How is he? Good-looking?"_

"...Not that kind of meeting."

_"Wash, at this place in our lives, EVERY meeting is that kind of meeting."_

Wash frowns. "Her name's Brighton. _She's_ great."

_"What kind of great? Like, Tucker great or just a good-ol' upstanding member of society?"_

He entirely ignores the first part. "Second kind. She reminds me a lot of you, except she didn't really scream at us too much. Or lock us out. _Or_ knock us out."

_"Wow. How long are you going to be this salty, huh? A few days? Weeks?"_

"I've got a long memory."

_"Years. Got it."_

Wash is silent for a moment before he snorts, a sound that comes seemingly from out of nowhere and absolutely without permission. Pretty soon he hears Niner make a similar sound, and before he knows it, they're both snickering ridiculously. He doesn't really know what was funny about any of that exchange—something about it had just felt so surreal that he couldn't help himself.

_"Jesus, look at us,_ " Niner finally manages without laughing. " _Comedians turned cynics, huh? Our true skill sets, wasted on war, of all fuckin' things. Hey, speaking of comedians, do you still remember how to skateboard at all?"_

Wash shakes his head with a hard exhale. "Uhhh, barely. I haven't even _tried_ since Freelancer."

_"Eh. I'm sure you'll pick it all up again the second someone puts a board in your hands."_

Huh. 

"Maybe."

It's kind of odd, but he hadn't realized how much he's missed skateboarding until now. It was fun, and unique, and during Freelancer, it felt like one of the few things _he_ could do that nobody else could. 

He makes a decision. When he gets back, he's going to find a skateboard. Chorus has civilian towns and cities, abandoned but not empty—one of them _has_ to have one. He's going to find one and just go nuts, have _fun_ for the first time in what feels like eons. Maybe he'll even teach the Blues, or some of the other soldiers, how to do it. He can almost picture them now—Caboose trying to walk normally before remembering that the board's still under him. Tucker attempting a high-level flip off of something dangerously high and landing on his ass. Carolina almost instantly picking it up and "unintentionally" showing off. Something tells him the lieutenants might already know how to skateboard—they are kids, after all.

The silence that follows is still and calm, and Wash sinks back against the seats as another carol begins. He recognizes the tune immediately, though he can't remember the words. Now that he thinks about it, the music is kind of appropriate. If he's been gone for three months, then December is next month—turns out Christmas is sooner than he thought. He wonders if anyone on Chorus celebrates it.

He looks out the window, and instead of seeing terrifying space, he imagines what it looks like from the ground. Stars don't seem so scary when you have a planet beneath your feet. Luckily, there's only a few hours left before there's a planet beneath his.

This time, neither of them feels a need to break the silence, save for Niner casually humming along to some of the tunes or occasionally mumbling about some blinking light on the console. Wash even starts to doze off, letting the music surround him and remind him of better times.

An hour into their silence, the music is suddenly replaced by roaring static.

The harsh sound wakes him instantly, and he shouts in surprise and throws his hands over his ears—but the static is over as quickly as it began, replaced by a crackling voice that he recognizes immediately.

_"—rus. Repeat, Charon aircraft, identify yourself, you are in restricted airspace—"_

Kimball.

Adrenaline rips through his head in the few seconds it takes to comprehend the voice _—_ and suddenly, he's hit with a wave of urgency that pushes him to move. Wash practically jumps to his feet, striding over immediately to the cockpit door and peering through the window. Niner is hunched over in her seat, helmet off and hands on her headset. He bangs on the door, hard, and she whips around to look at him.

"Niner, put me on the radio!" he shouts.

_"You recognize them?"_

The transmission comes back again, angrier, and Wash revels in the fact that Kimball still sounds exactly the same. _"—repeat, Charon aircraft, identify yourself or we put a hole in your hull—"_

He looks directly back at Niner. "It's Kimball _, now put me on the radio before she shoots us out of the goddamn sky!"_

_"Alright, jeez!"_ Niner spins back around and works furiously with the console. _"I'm patching it through to your display now."_

A small screen flickers to life on the wall near the cockpit and Wash practically lunges for it, talking fast and barely thinking about anything that comes out of his mouth. 

"Kimball, it's me, it's Wash, I'm on the ship, _Jesus_ , don't shoot, _don't shoot!_ "

The silence that follows is only a few seconds, but it might as well be an eternity with how tense it is. He grabs the edges of the screen hard in his hands, waiting desperately for a waveform to show up.

It does.

_"...Agent Washington?"_

Holy shit. No way, this is impossible.

Wash stares at the screen in shock for a second too long, and another waveform appears before he can muster up the courage to answer.

_"I swear to fucking God, this had better not be a joke."_

_"Wash, say something,"_ Niner mutters.

"Uh, y-yeah," he stammers, staring at the screen and watching his halting words form little peaks on the display. He can almost picture her frowning on the other side of the transmission. Wash swallows and tries again. "I mean, no, it's not a joke, Kimball, it's...it's me."

The silence this time is even longer, and a million times more painful. What if she doesn't believe him? What if Kimball doesn't believe him and they shoot the Pelican down? That paranoia, the fear of being onboard this ship, starts to kick in again, but it's different. Now he's afraid that he might not make it down to the planet, and that fear eats away at him for every second that Kimball doesn't say anything.

But eventually, she responds, words clipped and emotionless.

_"Keep this channel open or we open fire."_

Then Kimball's voice is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> So there's a slight update to the schedule: I've got some college visits the next two weeks, and the quarter's ending, meaning that I'm gonna be pretty dang busy. As a result, I can't post Chapter 7 next week. I will, however, post it two weeks from now, on the 7th. Sorry, I'm going to try to stick to schedule but the next couple weeks will be icky...y'know.....college decisions......... _ughhhhhhhhh..._
> 
> See you in two weeks!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...uh......I just want to apologize in advance (this is the chapter where all my friends started to tell me that I was a horrible person and a mean writer so....)

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

...

Holy shit.

Wash mutters something that almost reminds him of a laugh, running his gauntlets through his hair, and before he realizes it he's collapsed into a smiling heap on the floor. Kimball's negativity has never been so welcome. He looks past the metal of the ceiling and pictures the stars that must somehow be guiding his goddamn fortune right now because there's no way in hell that this should be possible.

Of course, Wash no longer cares if it's possible or not to escape from Charon. He just wants it to happen so desperately that he can't imagine it being otherwise.

The communications screen flickers to life a minute later with an incoming video transmission, and Wash immediately accepts, ignoring Niner's warning to wait.

Carolina is there.

He watches her features go dull a split second after accepting the call, followed immediately by a staggered step back from the camera. On his own end, Wash finds himself frozen, unable to react or do anything when faced with an Agent Carolina in shock.

Kimball stands over Carolina's shoulder, hair a frazzled mess and a cup of what looks like coffee in her hands. It must be the middle of the night there, because they're both wearing civvies, although Kimball has armor on from the waist down.

The general doesn't react as intensely as Carolina does, but she still inhales sharply and looks down for a moment. She doesn't look good. Which makes sense, considering that, the last time he saw her, the war ended and then restarted multiple times on the same day and constantly forced her to keep fighting. She's been fighting the whole time, while he's been imprisoned in some fucking space lab. Wash wonders if that drink of hers is actually coffee or something else.

There's silence for too long. Then Niner coughs pointedly and Wash gets the hint that he should say something first.

"Uhhhh. Hey," Wash mutters lamely.

Kimball looks back at the camera as if that one word is a personal offense. _"'Hey'? Are you fucking kidding me? You've been gone for three months and all you have to say is 'don't shoot' and 'hey'?!"_

"Sorry, I'm just..." He takes a deep breath, which ends up shaking. "Just still—"

 _"You're supposed to be dead."_ Carolina cuts him off, taking a deep breath and folding her arms in a way that seems more like she's trying to hold herself up than anything else. _"Everyone thought you were dead. The whole planet."_

"Well," he says, somehow sounding even lamer, "I'm not."

Kimball looks like she might explode, her words laced with strangled aggravation. _"I just don't understand how this is possible. Charon's been silent every time we tried to investigate what happened to you."_ She sighs, taking a sip of her coffee that looks awfully forced. " _A month in, we...well. You can imagine."_

They stopped trying.

 _"You look terrible,"_ Carolina says. _"What did they do to you up there?"_

"Uh, well, I—"

 _"Wait, hold on. How did you even get out?"_ she suddenly interrupts, her voice taking on a stonier tone. He's surprised by how easily he can read her right now—she's never this open. _"You're not in the cockpit. Who's piloting?"_

A strange sound from behind the door catches his attention and he hears Niner mumble something for a moment before her audio feed joins the call. _"Uhhh. Hey there, Lina."_

Carolina looks, if possible, more shocked than before. _"...Alex?"_

 _"Yeah. It's me._ " Niner chuckles weakly. _"Jeez, Wash was right, you do sound tired."_

Wash looks over to Kimball and is immediately worried when he sees the distrust settling on her face. _"Who are you?"_

_"I used to be a pilot for Project Freelancer. Sorry, I wish I could've made contact with your base sooner to warn you we were coming, but Charon was monitoring my calls."_

Mentioning her affiliation with Charon is clearly not the best move, because Kimball's expression becomes even darker. Wash wants to tell her to calm down—but he doesn't exactly feel qualified to say that right now. Instead, he can only watch as the hardened soldier he remembers slowly peeks through the cracks in her facade.

 _"Why were you with them?"_ Kimball says, dangerously low.

_"They caught me after Freelancer, same as Wash."_

_"Did you make a deal with Hargrove too?"_ Carolina asks.

_"No. I didn't have anything useful to offer as leverage like Wash did. They—"_

_"Wait, wait."_ Kimball's frown deepens to a point that might be irreversible. She looks at Wash slowly, realization dawning on her face. _"You worked with Charon?"_

Wash realizes with a jolt that he never told her. Of the people listening to him, Kimball is the only one who didn't know that he cut a deal with Hargrove before coming to Chorus. 

Niner is silent again, and Wash can almost feel her come to the same conclusion. _"Fffuck, you didn't know."_

 _"No,"_ Kimball says blankly, looking away. _"No I didn't."_

"I was a different person then," Wash says without thinking, but now that he's started he can't stop. He can't get over the fact that she won't look at him, like he's betrayed her. He has to convince her that he's not the monster she might think he is. "I-I was _desperate_ , I just wanted to get out of the hell I was in. It was the only option I ha—"

 _"Tell me you didn't do anything that contributed to this war,"_ she snaps. 

"I didn't even know Chorus _existed_ until we crashed on it! All I did was help them track down the old Epsilon unit—"

_"You mean the AI that we lost to Charon the same time we lost you? Hey, where IS Epsilon, by the way? Still with Charon?"_

_"It's my fault,"_ Niner says, _"I couldn't recover the chip and Wash at the same time. The security on the AI was ten times what they had on him."_

Carolina's expression tightens noticeably. _"So Epsilon is gone."_

 _"What a surprise,"_ Kimball seethes. _"One of our most valuable assets and allies disappears along with a former Charon associate, then said associate returns miraculously with a new ally that ALSO works with Charon. Couldn't have planned a trap like this better myself."_

Wash buries his head in his hands. She's not wrong. If this was a trap, it would be a damn good one.

 _"Kimball,"_ Carolina says quickly, _"this is ridiculous. They're both on our—"_

_"They were with Charon! That's not my side—"_

_"Vanessa, listen to me. I trust Niner and Wash with my life. And, traitors or not, there's no way in hell that I'm letting you shoot them out of the sky."_

Kimball doesn't acknowledge her, just stares frigidly at the camera. At Wash. Suddenly he wishes she would look anywhere else. _"You. Explain something before I spontaneously combust. Anything. Surprise me."_

 _"...Actually,"_ Niner interrupts, _"it's probably better if I explain. I know more of what's going on."_ She pauses, contemplating. _"And if you happen to have a neurosurgeon down there, they might wanna hear this too. That'll save me an explanation when we land."_

Carolina opens her mouth but Kimball interrupts her before she can say anything. _"Oh, nono, Carolina, you don't defend them. Wash I can somewhat believe, but I don't exactly trust her explanations,"_ Kimball snaps.

 _"Well, this isn't for me, it's for him, okay?"_ Niner spits back. " _Just get me on a channel with whoever you've got that knows how to handle neural implants."_

Carolina visibly deflates as if all the air has been sucked out of her body, turning her head down with a muttered swear under her breath. _"Please tell me they didn't do anything to his implants."_

_"Look...it's better if I just explain what they did to a doctor."_

She exhales and looks back up, directly at Wash with a gaze as hard as stone. _"Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. We can fix him."_

He gets the distinct feeling that it's meant more for him than for Niner.

Niner is silent for a moment before blurting out, _"I could've avoided this. If I had known it was him, I would've broken him out sooner—"_

 _"How could you NOT know?"_ Kimball says, incredulous. " _You didn't notice the constant transmissions, the battle reports, the information Charon stockpiled? You didn't know the whole fucking planet was suddenly hunting for information on Agent Washington?"_

 _"I...alright, look. General,"_ Niner says, though it sounds like it's heavily implying something else _. "I'm on your side. I'm running from them, same as Wash. If you don't want to talk to me, at least get me someone who'll figure out how we're going to help him. The second I'm not needed on Chorus, I'll get out of your hair, but I'm not bringing him down there if you're not prepared."_

Carolina looks up at the screen and Wash can somehow tell that she _badly_ wants to say something to him and _only_ him. Something personal, important. But she doesn't. Instead, she just nods tightly and says, _"I'll bring Grey,"_ then sprints offscreen.

With just Kimball on the other end, the tension magnifies until it's suffocating, and Wash is afraid to say anything that could make it worse. Kimball doesn't seem that intent on talking either. She just scowls at the screen as if glaring directly at Niner—but to Wash's relief, she doesn't hold the stare long.

 _"...Goddamnit, alright, you've got my attention."_ Kimball growls and throws up a hand tiredly. Her anger looks a little more forced now, concern showing through the cracks. _"I'll trust you for now. I don't know what's going on, but at least I can direct your ship to our base. What's your name?"_

_"Niner, or Kittinger. Whatever works."_

_"Fine. Just tell me what your current flight plan is."_

_"Well, we were planning on going to Crash Site Alpha—"_

_"No good. The Tiberius has people all over that base."_

_"Well, we need a place to land where we won't get killed."_

Kimball is silent for a long moment.

_"There's another base a few hundred kilometers north of Armonia where we can meet you."_

_"Mm, I'm not seeing anything on my maps."_

_"You shouldn't. It's a secret base, Charon's been looking for it for two months, since they figured out it exists."_

Wash frowns. "I didn't know we had any secret bases."

_"That's because the only people on this planet who knew about it were Doyle, Agent Carolina and I. You don't even know the people stationed there."_

"Why would Carolina—"

 _"Later,"_ Niner interrupts. " _Is it safe?"_

Kimball scoffs. _"It better be. Charon had the whole area mined before we settled it, but so far we haven't run into any. Problem is, we don't know how many mines there are or where, and they constantly keep planting more. It's possible they even have some cloaked ones in orbit, although we have yet to find the dropship that keeps depositing them. Have you seen anything?'_

_"No, it's been pretty much dead space since we broke out. No enemies, plus I've been avoiding anything that looks inhabited."_

_"How have they not found you yet?"_

_"Beats me. We left about seven hours ago—"_

Six hours, fifty-five minutes, three seconds, eleven milliseconds _—_

_"—and I honestly can't belie—Wash?!"_

Wash snaps back to reality for just long enough to realize that he's stumbled back from the screen as if it's on fire.

Oh no. Oh, no, oh no oh no no _nono. Not again._

"Niner, it just happened again," he stammers.

 _"What did?"_ Kimball snaps.

"The time, I remembered the time _again_ , _how is this possible_ —"

_"Wash, what's going on over there?"_

He doesn't respond to Kimball, too shocked by the number burning itself into his cranium. _There's no green._ He whips around to the window, expecting an emerald universe, but the sky is still black as tar.

Niner's voice comes through clear, but through the veil of panic, Wash can barely hear her. _"Okay, Wash, just slow down for a sec—"_

"Delta's off, _right?!"_ he shouts.

_"I'm not getting a signal from any Charon ships, so yeah, he's off! Wash, you NEED to calm down—"_

"Oh, bull _shit,_ I need to calm down!" he snaps back. "You're not the one they're fucking with—"

Niner turns off his screen and Wash panics even more, grabbing the corners hard. "Wait, no, bring it back—"

_"I'll put her back on in a sec. Wash, listen. Charon built an alarm into your implants. If you get too anxious, if your brain starts releasing all those stress chemicals, Lochley gets an immediate alert with both your location and vitals."_

"...Are you _shitting_ me? What _else_ is in my head that I don't know about?!"

_"Wash, calm down. If you get any more stressed out, Charon WILL find us."_

"Oh, you want me to—to _relax?_ Well, that's just fucking _perfect_ ," he hisses, suddenly feeling as frustrated as he is petrified. In a fit of anger, he lashes out and his foot connects with his helmet, sending it banging off the walls.

 _"...Wash,"_ Niner says slowly. _"Think for a second. What are you doing?"_

...What _is_ he doing?

The rage fades as quickly as it came and Wash slumps over, drained, in one of the seats, his head in his hands. This is wrong. He's so close to escaping, so why is everything so wrong?

Wash chances a look at the screen and sees that Niner has turned on the video but not the audio. Kimball is on the screen, no longer staring passively but holding a radio up to her mouth and clearly shouting orders to someone, he can't tell who.

 _"Wash, you have to be careful."_ Niner sighs. " _You don't understand the full extent of what Lochley's done in the past few days. It's so much more than what she did with the others. Faster, too."_

"Alright, so..." Suddenly his throat feels raw, but he forces himself to ask. "So what's the full extent?"

She's silent for a moment. Wash hates how quiet she's being with him, like she's navigating a maze of broken glass.

_"There's a whole scientific and psychological side to the bullshit they did that you're better off not knowing about."_

"What if I _want_ to know?"

_"I can't risk you freaking out like before. I already used up all the emergency sedatives we had on board."_

"But if the AI are off, then there's no chance of me freaking out, right?"

_"That's...not exactly true anymore. Look, I'm going to cut your audio feed while I talk to the doctor, just in case—"_

"Are you shutting me out _again?!"_

_"Wash, regardless of whatever the AI are telling you, you want to get out of Hargrove's web as badly as I do. You just need to hang in there. I'll turn your feed back on as soon as I finish."_

"Niner—" he growls, but doesn't go any further as a new thought surfaces in his mind.

He wants to kill her.

It's only there for a second, just a single second of blinding hatred and fury. But it's there. And it burns _viciously_ when it's there, it lashes out in that one second and tries to grab hold of the thoughts around it and _twist_ —

His own instinct fights back, but not fast enough for Wash to miss it. Wash shuts it down as fast as possible, a hand flying up to his mouth to stifle a gasp. No, no no no. Not her. That's _not_ him. He won't let that be him.

When Niner calls out to him, her voice is warm and soothing and _kind_ and _friendly_ , and that rogue thought terrifies him even more. _"Wash. Wash! Are you—"_

"Do it," he mutters, his voice barely audible. He doesn't trust himself to keep that thought down again if it resurfaces. He doesn't trust himself at all. "Don't let me hear a word. And don't let me into the cockpit, no matter what I say."

 _"...Okay,"_ she says softly, and a moment later, Wash can no longer hear her over the speakers.

He sits there for a minute, trying hard not to think for fear of that thought resurfacing. Listens to the sounds of machinery and the muted voices through the door. Maybe if he could hear what everyone's saying, he might be able to relax.

But instead he hears a different voice. He hears that murmur in his head, the quiet yet furious suggestion. _You want to kill her._

No I don't. I don't. I _don't._

_Then why are you trying so hard to convince yourself?_

I'm not _trying_ to convince myself of anything. Niner...

His rationale falters. He wants to reply to the thought by saying that she's good, but...she _was_ high up in Freelancer. She had to know what they were doing to the Alpha, regardless of how she acted, and she never once did anything to stop it. And when she was with Charon, she didn't save the Triplets. Maybe she could've, maybe not, but she didn't even try.

The murmur swells in his mind until the monotony of the ship's hums disappears. _She was the reason they were there, the Triplets. She took them and left them where Charon would eventually find them. And she couldn't even break them out._

As much as he hates to admit it, the voice...it isn't wrong.

_For all you know, this really is a trap. She could set you loose on Chorus and cause massive devastation the second you land._

Maybe Kimball's right. Niner's done bad things before. She could do them again.

_She could've told them you were alive. She could've saved Epsilon. She could've stopped them. But she didn't. Is that the mark of a good person?_

No, no it—

He stops suddenly, realizing how close he'd come to letting that thought win, and breathes out, shakily. His mind quickly rewinds, does its best to blot out the black stains on Niner's image that have suddenly appeared. Niner is _good_. She's been helping him. She gave him Maine's sweater. She kept him company. And she's breaking him out.

_She sedated you, Wash._

But the stains don't fully fade away.

Wash stands abruptly and checks the door. Niner's in the cockpit, talking into her headset and staring at a display in front of her. He can just barely see his own image on the screen, faded shapes too far to see. In the window, Chorus is a small green dot, growing larger by the second.

He sits back down and combs his fingers through his hair for a few seconds, then leans back and mutters, "Fuck," quietly under his breath. He doesn't want to go through this. All he wants is for things to be normal again. He wants to be on Chorus, or on Earth, or wherever. Somewhere where he and the others can spend the rest of their days and never fight a stupid war like this again. Anywhere but on this ship.

After a few minutes he stands and looks at the screen. Grey is there, a welcome change—but instead of the usual fake cheer she plasters on, Wash sees only reality. He doesn't think she's ever looked this angry in front of him before. Now there's a coldness in her eyes, a hard set to her mouth that tells him that Niner isn't telling her anything good. As if that's not bad enough, seeing Carolina and Kimball's dismal expressions behind her only makes it worse.

The audio turns on suddenly, and Wash looks up before remembering that Niner's in the cockpit. _"Wash,"_ Niner says, cautiously. _"Dr. Grey wants to talk with you now. That alright with you?"_

He nods, looking over to the screen and seeing Grey staring intensely his way. Something about her look makes him cross his arms protectively across his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, that's fine."

_"Go for it, Doctor."_

_"Thank you. Hello, Wash,"_ Grey says, her expression softening immediately. 

"Hey." He's at a loss for anything more profound.

_"How are you doing?"_

"I thought Niner filled you in on that."

Grey nods. _"Yes, she did—but I'm asking you."_

"I..." He swallows. For a moment he considers lying, but then he remembers that there's no way Grey would believe him. She's always had a knack for seeing through bullshit. "I could be better."

_"I believe you. Did you know, that's the first time I've ever asked you that and you haven't said "fine"?"_

Wash blinks. Does he really say it that much? "Uh, no. No, I didn't."

 _"It says a lot that, after everything you've been through, you're willing to be honest with me. Your friend said you've been holding up remarkably, considering the circumstances."_ She exhales. _"I can't imagine what you're going through, Wash—"_

"I should've tried to escape," he blurts out.

The idea hits him hard, unexpected—but the second he says it, it seems so obvious. He should've said it sooner. The entire time he'd been there, he'd _known_ that he needed to get out. But he hadn't bothered. Maybe it was the AI, maybe something else, but the guilt burns in his gut regardless.

Carolina purses her lips for a second and Wash wonders if she agrees.

Grey sinks a little bit, her smile becoming sad and sympathetic. _"...Wash."_

"I should've! If I had tried, or done something, but I _couldn't,_ I can't explain it, I just never tried to get out even though that was all I wanted—"

 _"Wash!"_ she interrupts. " _Stop looking for something that you did wrong. You're here, you're coming back. That's what matters. If anything, we're the ones to blame."_

"Don't say that."

_"I can very well say what I like. We should've looked for you harder, and longer. In fact, I'm sorry we didn't keep trying."_

He looks down, swaying on his heels. A tiny, pitiful part of him agrees, but he doesn't want to admit it. "You don't have to apologize."

_"Not everyone held out hope that you were still with us, Wash. I only wish we'd known that you were alive sooner—there are too many people here who could've benefited from knowing. But that's not your fault."_

"What do you mean? I was the one who chose to stay."

_"Yes. But it's not your fault we didn't know what happened to you. And don't blame yourself for not trying to escape. They hurt you, Wash. It's up to us to rescue you, not for you to rescue yourself."_

Wash is silent after that, unsure what to say. Being with the Chorus armies has taught him a lot about being respected and wanted, but every so often they still manage to hit him with some kind of affection that leaves him speechless. That affection is part of what he's missed the most.

 _"Well, I'm not going to waste time,"_ Grey says suddenly. _"Wash, I know this may be a bit uncomfortable, but I need to know exactly what you remember about the operation Charon did on you."_

She's right. It's more than uncomfortable—just the idea of it starts pushing his heartrate up. But she wouldn't ask if she didn't need to know. She's not that cruel.

After glancing at the cockpit door, Wash tightens his arms over his chest. "I don't remember much. Just flashes. They had me on an operating table every time I woke up."

_"Do you have any idea when?"_

He shakes his head. "No. It was only for seconds at a time. Every time I woke up, someone almost immediately noticed and forced me back under."

_"Do you remember anything you saw? Can you describe any of the flashes?"_

"Well, there was one—"

The memory comes back to him suddenly. Almost a minute of trying to remove—

"A plug. There was a plug," he says, more surely. "Directly into my implants. I think they used it to download the pieces of Epsilon. I woke up and tried to get it out, but they knocked me out before I could make any progress."

_"When you were awake, did they say anything?"_

He shakes his head. 

_"Do you remember what you felt?"_

"I...I don't know." Wash shrugs. "I just...I didn't feel like myself. Any of the times."

_"What about the tests they did after you gained consciousness, the ones where they started using the fragments?"_

"The same. I wasn't in control."

_"Which of the AI do you remember being used on you?"_

He has to think about that a second. "I remember Theta. Theta the most. Then Delta, and Eta."

_"...Nothing with Sigma, Epsilon, Omega or Beta?"_

Wash frowns. "No. Why? Did they test those?"

_"According to Kittinger, Charon has already checked all seven fragments for functionality and had plans to test the remainder today. Which, if they can reach you from their ship, isn't good, because from what I've heard those four tend to be the more...destructive ones. It's not what you want to hear, but keeping you away from the cockpit is probably the smartest choice your friend has made."_

Wash hums in uncomfortable acknowledgement of the fact. They were going to test them _today._ If Niner hadn't broken him out today, they would've been doing with those four fragments what they'd already been doing with the others. He's afraid to think of what they might have hardcoded if he were still there.

_"Kittinger told me about the hardcoding procedure that they started testing you with. Can you tell me everything that's been hardcoded so far?"_

If possible, that's more uncomfortable than everything else. But it's Grey. He trusts her. Wash closes his eyes and tries to picture the hardcodes, letting them push to the front of his mind immediately. "Don't tell Lochley about the escape plan. Two different times—how long I was conscious during a Delta test and how long we've been away from the ship. And some math thing—" He snaps his fingers, opens his eyes. "Jordan's curve theorem."

She frowns. _"As in,_ all _of Jordan's curve theorem?"_

"Yeah."

_"All...six thousand plus lines."_

He nods.

Grey gives him a long, awkward look. _"Well then, congratulations. You officially have the same mathematical prowess as I do."_

"I...what?" The idea of being as smart as Grey is about as believable to him as the existence of unicorns.

 _"Of course, it can be entirely attributed to Delta, but it's impressive nonetheless."_ Grey coughs, even more awkwardly. _"Right, right, hardcodes! Anything else?"_

_You'll regret it._

"No."

The lie slips out without thinking, but he can't bring himself to say the words. He doesn't want to panic again. He's with friends now, with allies. Why would he _possibly_ regret this?

If Grey notices the lie, she says nothing. _"Is there anything else that changes when the fragments are being used? Anything you can tell me will help."_

"Well, I've been seeing in colors."

_"...Wash, everyone sees in colors."_

"No, I mean, like, _single_ colors," he insists. He stops for a moment, but continues when Grey gestures for him to elaborate. "When the AI are on. That's how I've been able to tell when they're there. Theta is purple, Delta's green, Eta's blue. All the other colors go away."

 _"I didn't know that,"_ Niner says. 

Grey frowns and looks at him a little more intensely. _"No, I doubt they gave you all the details if they didn't trust you. Wash, would you mind getting closer to the camera?"_

"How close?"

_"Just stare directly into it and look up."_

Ignoring the strangeness of the request in an environment like this, he does it, staying there for a few moments before she tells him to switch eyes.

When he pulls back, her expression is unreadable. _"There's a small surgical scar on the lower section of both eyes,"_ she says crisply. _"I doubt you'd notice unless you were really looking for them. It's possible they added some sort of optical implant to affect your vision, but there's no way to know for sure until you're here."_

Wash feels his breath hitch and does his best to hide his surprise, but judging by Grey's sigh he doesn't do a very good job. _"Don't worry, eye surgery is tricky but reversible. That's the least of our concerns. Let me see your implants."_

When Wash hesitates, she gives him a sympathetic smile and motions for him to turn around. But he doesn't. He doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to be _sure_ about what they've done. A part of him can accept that this has just been a nightmare the whole time, and knowing what has been done to his implants will shatter that illusion.

Unintentionally, his eyes flash to Carolina and Kimball, and Grey notices immediately. _"You two, leave. I'll tell you when you can come back."_

_"But—"_

_"Doctor's orders, General. This shouldn't take long."_

Grudgingly, Kimball and Carolina walk out of the frame, and their voices grow hushed and then silent in the background.

Grey looks up. _"Kittinger? Would you mind giving us some time?"_

 _"Sure,"_ Niner says. Wash can almost hear the shrug. _"We're en route to that base of yours, should be a bit more than an hour before we breach the atmosphere. I'll come back the second I see anything weird in his vitals."_

_"About that, I'd appreciate you routing that information here as well."_

_"Once I'm back on the line, I'll send it over. Niner out."_

Niner's audio feed turns off with a click, leaving the two of them alone.

Grey takes a big step back until her entire body is visible on the screen and gestures to the wide open space around her. He's never seen the communications room this empty before. _"There. A little privacy. Just like a doctors' appointment."_

He's never liked doctors' appointments.

"You didn't have to kick them out."

Grey snorts. _"Oh, come on, Wash. You have to admit this is better."_

"...Yeah," he concedes. "Yeah. It is."

 _"You_ really _don't like showing people your implants, do you?"_

"I didn't—"

_"Wash, you were on an amazing honesty streak there. Don't waste it."_

After a tense moment, he shakes his head. "I never liked showing them. Even since Freelancer."

She looks at him with a newfound curiosity. _"Is that why you kept asking around for—"_

"Scarves. Yeah."

_"You wore them in Freelancer too?"_

"Any time I didn't have armor on. It was either a scarf or a hood."

 _"I see."_ Grey nods, as if he's making perfect sense. After a moment, she claps her hands together. _"Well, let's take a look. You can sit down and turn around, it should be fine."_

He gulps and turns around, then sits, holding up the part of his hair just above the implant site.

_"A little closer. Lower. Low—there. Okay. Don't move, just let me look for a second."_

Wash sits there, as still as he can be. At one point, Grey stops mumbling to herself and is so silent that Wash thinks she left.

"...Grey?"

_"Just writing some stuff down. I'm still here, don't worry."_

There's silence for a few more seconds.

_"You probably haven't been shown any of this, have you? I doubt they'd be that considerate. Do you want me to tell you what I know?"_

After a moment of indecision, he nods, carefully.

_"Well, I can give you the obvious first. They're not your old implants—at least, not the same interface. Your old ones were years out of date with the newest neural technology, so I doubt they left them in. They probably went in, took out the old wires and replaced them with newer ones that fit their technology."_

He's not sure how he feels about that. Implants are implants, but...now that's it's sprung up out of the blue, the sentimentality for his old ones is hard to ignore.

_"You were right about them downloading the Epsilon fragments. There's a port for an AI chip that's been smoothed over, you can see the edges on the metal. It's probably the port they used to attach the plug."_

"What does it look like?"

_"Well, the interface is smooth. Black, but it doesn't look like paint. Possibly alien metal. There's the word 'ICARUS' printed in all caps down the side. You might be interested to know that they made it yellow lettering—I just thought that might amuse you."_

He frowns, that fact feeling almost as violating as the entire operation. They stole his colors. "It's actually pretty fucking unsettling."

 _"It's probably their way of reminding themselves who you are without armor. Unlike your allies and friends, they probably can't reconcile your face with your helmet."_ Grey coughs. _"I think I've seen what I need to. You can turn around."_

Wash does, but for some reason he can't bring himself to stand. He just sits there, crosslegged, waiting.

_"Can we trust your friend?"_

"What?"

_"Kittinger, or Niner, whichever she goes by. Can we trust her?"_

Wash hates the hesitation in his voice when he says, "Yeah. I trust Niner as much as Carolina does."

There's silence again. Grey looks down at her feet, then glances at the door before looking back to him.

 _"Wash."_ Grey's features are a mask of emotion, no longer angry but rather warm and settling.

"Yeah?"

For the first time, her voice cracks. _"You can't possibly fathom how much everyone has missed you."_

Wash doesn't even try to hide the tenseness in his muscles the words bring.

" _People have been out of their minds, it's like everything here reminds someone of you. Last week, Bitters scrounged up the playlist you used to play during training and the entire base was in tears. And Donut rescued this cat, named it Freckles, but everyone calls it Frecklelancer behind his back. It sleeps on your bed and then just runs around the base when it's not tired."_

She runs a hand through her hair, almost smiling, her eyes clouded as if she's watching the animal skittering along the floor.

 _"This whole time. The world mourned you this whole time, and you were still alive."_ Grey laughs, a sound teetering between disbelief and hysteria. _"Did you know, we put up a memorial for you? Between the one for Donald and the one for the fallen soldiers. I hope you don't mind, Carolina insisted we put your full name on it. Most of the soldiers didn't know."_

"Why are you telling me this?" he whispers, failing to hide the unbidden catch in his voice.

_"You should know what you're coming back to. And besides, I figured you can be more free to react to it without the others watching you like you might explode."_

"They're right to watch me like that." For all he knows, he could snap at any second, and take everyone down with him.

She shakes her head. _"It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Everyone's watching you like that, yes. But they see you as a bomb, I see you as a balloon. You just need to vent. I'm a doctor, Wash. I know you. You're strong, in more ways than you think. But you have to stop trying to put up a front for everyone, it's not healthy, and you're going to fill up until you explode. Promise me, when you come back, you'll try to let off some steam."_

Let off some steam. No one has ever even pitched him the idea before.

Something cracks.

They made him a _memorial_. Not even for Agent Washington, the militant persona he'd assumed. For David Kessler. For _him._ He doubts Freelancer would have even kept his personnel files had they thought him dead.

They played his music. Music he hadn't even chosen consciously. The first thing he clicked when Bitters handed him the datapad. Jazz.

Wash feels tears prickling at his eyes, and he's taken over with such a wave of disappointment in himself that he violently wipes them away. He doesn't understand this. It's ridiculous. Ridiculous _._ They made him a memorial. They listened to his music. They _cared. Ridiculous._

He looks to Grey in hopes that she agrees, that it's ridiculous, but then he sees the look in her eyes, and hears that odd crack in her voice on repeat. She helped make his memorial. She cried over the music. She cared.

_"This is what I mean, Wash. If you want to cry, do it."_

He wipes at his eyes again, but his arm lingers over them and he sniffles, hard. It feels like the most ridiculous thing he's done in years, but it feels so good that he doesn't chastise himself for it.

They got a cat and it sleeps on his bed. He hasn't held a cat in years.

The AI are a distant memory.

_"Wash. Everything that's been done to you...it's been hard, huh?"_

He nods. Another sob shakes him. Hard, but nearly silent. He doesn't force a thing—rather, he can't stop. Everything just falls out of him, every sob wringing loose another memory and setting it ablaze, bright for instants until it fades.

_"It wasn't fair at all."_

He shakes his head, interrupted by a hiccup that somehow fades into an estranged chuckle. He hasn't cried this hard since long before joining the military.

Wash misses them. He misses them so much it hurts. This isn't fair at all.

_"Feeling any better?"_

Wash snorts, almost immediately followed by another sniffle.

_"Wash, I'll always be here to talk. Whenever you need to let off some steam. Okay?"_

Grey's voice has regained a bit of its chipper. She wants to help him. She's the only doctor who's _ever_ wanted to help him.

He lowers his arm and catches sight of his reflection at the black edge of the screen. His eyes are ringed with red. He swipes at them again, then nods. "Okay."

_"Promise me you'll come to me if you need to talk?"_

He nods again.

_"And no more saying you're fine when you're not—trust me, I'm not the only one it bothers."_

He'll try.

Grey smiles at him, a genuine smile, but it quickly fades to a more somber expression. She looks down for a moment, then back to him. _"If you ask me, it seems as though your implants have been the source of all your problems since day one."_

It's hard to argue with that.

_"Out of curiosity, did the implants serve any purpose besides holding AI? Anything medical?"_

"No." He takes a deep breath, feeling somewhat more normal. "They were a mandatory part of my Freelancer contract."

_"I see."_

She inhales, eyes closed, then looks directly at him. 

_"I was planning to tell you this after you got back, three months ago, but it's never felt more relevant than now. When you come back, if you want me to, I can remove your implants."_

He must've misheard her.

"...What?"

 _"It's not a simple surgery, and for you the chances of complete success are only 38%, but it's no more risky than attempting to remove the AI, which I already plan to do."_ She sighs. _"I gave Carolina the choice a few days after we returned, but she declined. She didn't want to lose the possibility of having Epsilon again. I offered it to the others a few days later, and so far only Simmons and Tucker have turned me down. Donut volunteered to go first and has completely recovered. Sarge and Doc already went, they'll both be out of the hospital by the week's end. Grif's slated to go next, but if you want them out then I'm bumping him and doing it immediately once you arrive."_

Wash sits there for a moment, dazed. He'd never even considered the possibility of having them removed. Is it _really_ possible, with a chance that low?

He leans closer, more shocked than intrigued. "I...what would you do?"

_"Well, the goal is, obviously, to remove the implants without damaging your brain. But hopefully, not having the implants will remove the AI fragments and whatever remnants they may have left behind."_

"You..." He squints, takes a deep breath. "So you're saying you can remove them and _maybe_ even what they did?"

_"Maybe, Wash. Don't get too attached to that possibility. But without question, the AI will be out and you won't be compatible for them ever again."_

"Never?"

_"Never."_

That has a nice ring to it.

_"The surgeries were relatively short for the three who've gone already, but for you, it'd be harder. There's still the matter of whatever Charon did to your eyes, and because I'm unfamiliar with Charon's newer tech, I wouldn't feel as comfortable making it fast. I'd say you'd be in prep for a few hours, be out for about two days, then hospitalized for another month or so so I can make sure that everything has left you without complications. That's the rundown. You understand? It's risky, and even if it works, it'll be hard recovery. I wouldn't dream of letting you put on armor for at least another month."_

He understands. It's dangerous, especially for him. If it doesn't work, he dies...

But.

_But._

If it works, he never has to deal with an AI again. No more Epsilon, no more Theta, no more hardcoding. 

And maybe, _just_ maybe, no more nightmares.

_"This is entirely your choice, Wash. It's your body, your brain, and I can remove the AI without removing the implants. Are you in or out?"_

No more nightmares.

Hard recovery has never been a problem for him, anyway.

There's a strange feeling burning in his gut, something like hope, or terror, or maybe excitement. He summons all his courage and looks her right in the eyes.

"I'm in. When we get back, I want you to remove my implants."

On the other end of the screen, Grey looks relieved.

_"I'd be honored."_

That's it, then. Starting when he gets back, he won't be the AI-compatible Freelancer/Charon supersoldier prototype. He'll just be Wash. Maybe even David.

He's never been more okay with that in his life.

Wash smiles weakly at her, and she smiles back, but there's something in her face that quickly drains his cheer away. She's adopted that weird look again, like she's gazing past him. Suddenly he feels weird sitting so close to the screen, so close to her. He stands abruptly and crosses his arms, moving away from the screen.

"How is everyone?" he asks.

Grey's smile falters for a moment, but she fixes it. Wash still catches the fall.

 _"They're...okay. Some things have changed."_ She sighs. _"We made bargains with the pirates and mercs that didn't want to work for Charon anymore. They're part of the army now. It's helped. And with the communications temple as one of our main bases, we're not shut off from the UNSC anymore. People are helping. More than before, anyway."_

She jolts as if she just remembered something.

_"Oh, yes! Something good happened. Grif thought his sister was dead for years, but she commed him a few hours after they returned from the ship. Apparently she saw his picture in Epsilon's message. Once the war's over, she plans to come live with him. Now he's like a completely different person! He's somewhat tidy, eats a reasonable amount, and is actually doing good with his new job."_

"What new job?"

_"He's in charge of managing supply runs. That's how he helped Donut find the kitten."_

Wash snorts. That job certainly fits him.

_"Donut got promoted, which is nice, although we barely see him anymore. The Reds still run the armory, but it's not as busy now that people just go to the Temple of Arms for their gear. And, even though he's recovering now, Sarge has taken over training the soldiers. He's also not exactly doing too bad of a job."_

What a ringing endorsement.

_"Oh, dear."_

"What is it?"

_"I can't imagine how Tucker is going to take this news."_

Wash's heart skips a beat, remembering Tucker's scream when the Pelican flew away and left Wash behind. He can't imagine how Tucker will react either.

He's afraid to ask, but he needs to know. "...How is he?"

_"Not as okay. It's hard to even get a joke out of him lately. He's been in the field almost daily since we lost you—and when he's not fighting, he's training. He rarely talks to any of us. He calls his son when he can, but I've never heard those calls. And he goes to the memorial a lot. He—"_

"He thinks me being captured is his fault," Wash mutters, head in hands as the realization hits him. Fuck. Stupid, _stupid_. Of course Tucker would think that. They've already been separated once, and Tucker hated himself for every moment of that.

Tucker _hated_ it every time Wash put someone before himself. He can't imagine what this is doing to him.

Will he be angry when Wash returns? Sad? Scared? Relieved? Or disbelieving? Will Wash never talk to the Tucker he remembers so vividly again?

Suddenly he has a terrible urge to ask if Tucker misses him, but he forces it down. "Is everyone safe?"

She exhales even harder this time and runs a hand through her ponytail, looking over her shoulder. _"I think the Generals are more suited to answer that."_

"...General _s_?"

Grey opens her mouth for a second, then closes it with a weird noise, but Wash understands immediately. That's why Carolina knew about that secret base. "They're _both_ in charge. Carolina and Kimball."

After an uncomfortable moment of staring, Grey says, _"She had to. With the war getting worse, and coupled with losing you...well. A lot of things had to change."_

She's a _general_ now. Not just a Freelancer. He tries not to feel betrayed or think about the permanency that implies, but it's still hard to keep the bite out of his tone. "What else?"

Grey crosses her arms, then lets them fall at her sides. _"Smith, Bitters and Jensen were promoted to captains. They're training the others now."_

"What about Palomo?"

_"He started training to be a pilot after we came back from the ship. He was good."_

Was.

 _"There was a rescue mission, a month after we lost you. Volunteer only."_ Grey takes a deep breath. " _He was shot down during the ascent. Him and Major Brighton."_

Oh no. No, no no, not both of them. Not for _him._

Wash remains upright for the few seconds he can before the weight of Grey's words hits him with the force of a trillion tons. He sinks into one of the seats, head falling into his hands. He remembers Brighton now, remembers her skill, the small yet monumental conversations they'd shared, her sense of humor. Remembers being infuriated by Palomo and yet somehow proud at the same time, and how much he pissed everyone off while simultaneously making them laugh. They're not here now because of _him._ Because he cared about them and they cared right back, they cared enough to risk their lives for him.

 _"Wash!"_ Niner exclaims. True to her word, she's back right as he's on the verge of a panic attack. _"Calm down, you're getting too riled up. Breathe. Grey, what the fuck are you doing?! I warned you there were alarms!"_

He forces himself to breathe. _One, two._ Forces himself to do it again. Forces himself to calm down, remembering the alarm. It's as if the only way he can do anything is by forcing it.

"Who else?" he says, forcing the words out syllable by syllable. 

 _"Wash, Kittinger is right. I don't think you need to know all of this now,"_ Grey warns, softly. _"Wait until you're safe."_

"No. Grey, I—" He stops suddenly to breathe again, _one, two,_ then looks up and steels his hands against the seat. "I need to know who else is gone because of me."

_"Wash—"_

_"Don't you fucking do it,"_ Niner hisses. _"You're putting every single one of us at risk!"_

The door bursts open and Carolina and Kimball storm on screen, but freeze when they see the desperate look on Wash's face.

" _Please_ , Emily," he pleads. "Don't make me sit on this, _please."_

Halfway through Niner's shouted warning, Grey says the name.

Wash doesn't quite register the news at first. When Grey says the name, he almost thinks it's a joke. He nearly laughs, until he notices that nobody else is laughing, and Kimball is looking away and Carolina is pressing her lips together so hard they might bleed and Grey looks physically shaken by the word she's just said.

Then Wash freezes. Every part of him locks into place, chains him down—because the second he moves, the world will go on around him, and Wash will have to accept the fact that Caboose is dead.

Grey keeps talking and Wash doesn't hear a word, just remains frozen, watching her lips move in slow motion. 

Suddenly all he can think of is blue, and how blue is Caboose's favorite color, and how Caboose was so happy when Wash borrowed Church's armor and joined the Blue team, and how his smile always got bigger when he laughed, and how it was impossible to not feel bad when Caboose had his giant doe eyes locked on him, and how Caboose stood up for him in front of Freckles and Caboose always wanted to be part of everything and Caboose loved him like a brother and hugged like he didn't know how to let go and Caboose, _Caboose Caboose Caboose—_

_How sad would it be to not have a brother and to lose a brother all in the same day?_

He remembers Caboose's face so vividly, from the ship—his childlike features twisted in pain and fear, Freckles clutched to his chest like a security blanket, his leg shattered beyond repair.

Wash finally catches some of Grey's words and hears that Caboose never even made it back down to the planet.

And Wash _left_ him. 

_Oh, no, yeah, I don't think you'd do that, Wash. No, we are friends, see?_

Wash left his friend. He left Caboose alone on that Pelican and now Caboose is—

_Caboose is dead._

Everything unfreezes.

Wash screams wordlessly, grabbing his head and sliding down to the floor. He tries to breathe but nothing comes in, it's just empty breaths, and he knows he's hyperventilating but there's no way to stop, he doesn't know how because Caboose is _dead_ and Wash didn't rescue him fast enough and Caboose is gone and Wash will never see him again, Wash doesn't deserve to breathe when Caboose can't.

He hears garbled words from the radio and the speakers— _stop, Wash, shock, you dumb fuck, jamming, no good._ But all he thinks is _Caboose Caboose Caboose._

_It's my fault. Caboose is dead because I couldn't save him fast enough. If I were better I could've saved him. But now it's too late to be better and Caboose is dead, he's dead, he can't be dead, what will the world do without Michael J. Caboose?_

Wash hears nothing anymore, his thoughts going numb. Then he looks up to the screen and sees Tucker there, having burst into the comms room at the sound of Wash's scream.

The two of them lock eyes for an instant, broken brown to shattered blue, before Wash feels something go wrong.

A jarring feeling cuts through the silence, a burst of sound and light in his head that makes him shout in pain and drags his vision away from Tucker. He identifies it without being told, doesn't know how. A radio wave, sent directly to his implants.

Charon found him.

Blinking in the dead center of his vision are two words, bright and vivid as blood— 

 

**SIGNAL ACQUIRED**

 

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. Just...I'm so sorry.
> 
>  
> 
> So college choices are still driving me insane, plus I have a lot of work over my break, so I'm gonna have to delay another week for the next chapter. I'm sorry about that, but this chapter was pretty long so I'm not entirely sad about it. Thanks to Liz for being so nice about the college stuff, your advice really did help friendo~
> 
> This chapter actually concludes the first arc of the story! Which means that next time, with chapter eight, I'm starting the second main arc! It's probably going to be about five chapters long, and I'm currently working on it, so here's to hoping it goes well...
> 
> See you in two weeks!


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

...

There are people shouting everywhere. Wash can kind of hear them, too—Niner alternating between chastising Grey and consoling him, Grey firing back at the top of her lungs. Kimball yelling orders to someone, Carolina trying to keep Tucker from attacking the display. Tucker screaming Wash's name.

But all he _sees_ are the words.

 

**SIGNAL ACQUIRED**

 

A second radio wave connects with him and this time he screams, the intensity far higher than the last shock. It _hurts_. It's only for a few seconds, but the pain from Delta is _nothing_ compared to this.

He blinks away tears and the words are still there. Still flashing, an announcement to the universe. They flash every few seconds, bright, but almost natural, as if the letters are floating in reality and not in his mind.

 

**SIGNAL ACQUIRED**

 

Another burst of sensory information, ten times more painful, sends a violent shudder through his spine and forces him to the ground.

 

**SIGNAL ACQUIRED**

 

"No, no no. Get out, get _OUT_!" he shrieks, jamming his eyes shut and crunching into a ball. 

The words flash a brilliant crimson against the back of his eyelids, the pain of the following radio wave so unbearable that Wash would like nothing more than to die before experiencing another one. He doesn't get a chance to scream before the shock takes his breath away.

Trembling, Wash shakes his head to clear it, trying to take in air, but everything burns like lava is pouring through his bloodstream and it's an ordeal just to breathe. He pushes his torso off the floor, just barely making it to a seated position.

 

**SIGNAL ACQUIRED**

**SIGNAL LOCKED**

 

The words stop flashing suddenly and Wash doesn't dare breathe, pressing his back against the hull. His eyes dart around but the words remain, the only thing Wash is allowed to see.

New words appear.

 

**I WARNED YOU, AGENT WASHINGTON.**

 

Lochley.

Another shock rips a scream from him, and the words change again.

 

**I EVEN HARDCODED IT.**

 

Again.

 

**I TOLD YOU**

 

_Again._

 

**YOU WOULD REGRET THIS.**

 

She's right. As he lies on the floor, convulsing in agony and terror and grief, he knows she's right. The pain he's experiencing is lightyears past his threshold but somehow he's not passing out and all he wants is for it to stop, he doesn't care how, he just wants it _gone._

Wash can barely see the screen, but everyone has fallen still, their eyes fixed on him with morbid horror and fascination. He can't see Tucker because the words block—

They reappear in his peripheral vision without another shock, startling him. Tucker stares back at him, his face a mixture of confusion and disbelief, and Wash feels as trapped as a deer in headlights.

_"You were alive this whole time."_

For the first time, Wash hears Tucker, really hears him. Wash tries to direct his attention through the pain to the aqua marine, but can barely keep himself from panicking. His hands shake as he pushes himself up to his knees, then one foot, then the other, until he's leaning precariously against the hull.

After a moment, he forces himself to meet Tucker's eyes, but the look in them is so intense and full of emotion that Wash can't hold his gaze for more than a second before looking back to the floor. He's not sure if Tucker is going to burst out crying or start yelling at him for being an asshole, and he's not sure which one he's more afraid of.

_"Come ON, Wash, it's me, what the hell's wrong with you?!"_

Even worse than seeing him is hearing the quiet tremble in Tucker's voice. There's a disbelief to his words that stings, almost as badly as the actual pain. Tucker actually _can't_ believe he's alive. Tucker thought he was dead. 

Even Tucker gave up.

Wash is too afraid to respond.

 

**APPARENTLY YOU DON'T RESPOND TO WORDS**

**SO WE'LL USE ACTION INSTEAD.**

 

Wash feels something foreign but immediately recognizable start to creep into his mind, and a wave of horror overtakes him as he realizes. He looks to Grey and starts, "Th—"

He's cut off by another shock, but Theta overtakes him so quickly that he doesn't get a chance to scream. His legs falter beneath him and suddenly he's back on his hands and knees, gasping for air. The AI works immediately to pacify him—but the excruciating pain of the shocks must be too much for Theta because the purple doesn't quite seem to stick.

 

**DOES HE HAVE THE META SUIT?**

 

Wash shakes his head, not an answer but rather a plea. "Stop, _stop_ ," he gasps, as Theta tries to force him into compliance and continuously fails.

 

**ANSWER THE QUESTION.**

**DOES HE HAVE THE META SUIT?**

 

He barely manages to hold in a scream after the next shock, and out of sheer desperation he looks up. Sees Tucker in training slacks and a t-shirt two sizes too big. " _No_ ," he chokes out, shaking his head as well in hopes that, wherever Lochley is, that's enough for her.

 

**AND THE PLASMA SWORD?**

 

Wash doesn't wait for a shock, just looks back at the screen and scans his eyes over it until he sees the hilt of the weapon in Tucker's fist. "I see it," he whispers.

He holds his breath, waiting for another shock, another jolt of pain.

Nothing comes.

He waits. A second, another, another, until the silence finally takes a weak hold.

Wash dares to move, slowly unclasping his shaking hands from his hair. There's nothing. Theta murmurs at him from somewhere distant, not quite strong enough to force Wash to do anything, but other than that there is only quiet and the ambient noise of the Pelican.

He releases a short breath, but doesn't relax. He doesn't trust this reprieve for a second. Lochley has to be watching, or listening. Somehow she knows what's going on.

Something Niner said to him the first time he saw her comes to mind, a forgotten memory. _You can't say anything, your audio's on a different router than mine._ Lochley could be listening to everything he says and hears.

Theta tells him not to worry. But Wash is very worried. He can't even keep track of all the things Grey and Kimball and Niner said that wouldn't be safe in Charon's hands.

_"Wash,"_ Niner breathes. He'd completely forgotten she was there. _"You need to tell me what the fuck just happened."_

Wash shakes his head, eyes wide. He doesn't need Lochley to tell him that he can't say anything. Just the idea of betraying her makes him think about those shocks, how excruciating they were—how easily he'd given in.

_"Wash!"_

He shakes his head harder. "I _can't,_ I _-_ I'm sorry but I can't—"

_"Did Lochley contact you?"_

"I—"

He gulps, shaking, and looks to Grey on the screen, an island of safety in a sea of insanity. "Emily," he says, his voice dangerously small. "Help."

Grey only shifts her weight slightly, but her eyes widen as if Wash's statement has literally blown her back a few feet. 

_"Kittinger,"_ she says, her voice steely. _"Lochley can wait. I think you need to get Wash to me as soon as you can."_

_"No, YOU wait. Ignoring Lochley is a bad idea. You gave us sensitive intel on your army, your command structure and some of your bases. If Lochley can establish contact with Wash, then she knows everything—"_

_"Jesus fucking Christ! Can someone explain what the FUCK happened?!"_ Tucker snaps suddenly, gesturing wildly to Wash from within Carolina's restraining grasp. His eyes flash over and lock onto Wash's for a second before Wash has to tear himself away. _"He can't even look at me, the fuck did they do to him?"_

_"Tucker—"_ Carolina begins, but she falls silent when he rips himself free of her and shoves her away. 

_"Why the FUCK didn't anyone tell me you found him, huh? I thought he was dead this whole time, but turns out he's been here, on a fucking Skype call with you and nobody went to get me?!"_

_"Nobody can know,"_ Kimball grits out _. "Not until he's actually here. They don't need false hope—"_

_"False h—Kimball, there's a goddamn difference between giving us false hope and just letting me know he's alive!"_

_"I don't see one. And if there's anyone who could do without false hope, it's you."_

Tucker lets out an infuriated shout and looks back to Wash, his eyes practically begging for contact, but Wash can't force himself to supply it. Instead, Wash directs all his focus at the floor, taking shallow breaths and trying and failing to call on Theta for help. An AI seems like nothing compared to the idea of staying this terrified for any longer.

_"Let's get to the point."_ Kimball takes control of the situation as if nothing has happened. _"For safety reasons, let's assume Charon knows everything we said that Wash heard. That means they have at least a general idea of where Elodea is, which is a lot more than they had before. Kittinger, how fast can you get to the communications tower?"_

_Elodea_. That must be the name of the base.

Carolina frowns. _"We're bringing him to the center of our operations?"_

_"No choice,"_ Grey says. _"We need to get those AI out of his head safely, but Elodea is too valuable to lead Charon directly into, and I'm not treating Wash in the middle of nowhere. The main hospital's only a few kilometers away from the tower, I can start procedures as soon as he arrives. For now, is there any way for you to sedate him again up there?"_

Niner must see the rapid rise in Wash's heartrate from the cockpit, because she immediately says, _"Yeah, that's not the best idea. Just the mention of sedatives makes his vitals go to shit. Besides, I used my sedatives all up to make sure we got some distance between us and Charon."_

_"Well, you'll have to find some other way, then. Wash, I know how much you dislike sedatives, but if you're not conscious, I doubt Lochley can receive any of your information. It gives us an advantage we can't afford to lose."_

Wash pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his hands over the implant site, his fingers trailing across the fault where skin gives way to smooth metal. Hate courses through his veins, a bitter chill at the thought that this tiny little metal sheet has control over his life.

_"I..."_ Niner sighs. _"I've got a taser. Fuck."_

_"You're gonna fucking TASE him?"_ Tucker says, incredulous.

_"It's either that or I flush most of the air from the bay, and when you're in space that's kind of a last resort!"_

_"At least you're not tasing him!"_

_"So you're suggesting I stop him from breathing instead?"_

_"Obviously not, but you—"_

_"It wouldn't be my first choice either, Tucker, but I don't see an alternative,"_ Grey grinds out through her teeth.

_"Oh, bullshi—"_

_"Tucker,"_ Kimball hisses, _"you are_ easily _the least helpful person in this room right now. Either shut the fuck up, or leave."_

_"I'm not going anywhere!"_

_"Might as well just stay put, it won't be long until we arrive,"_ Niner says. _"I'm changing our route. We'll be at the temple in eighteen minutes at max speed. Just be ready."_

Her voice gets a little softer, almost pained. _"Wash, I'll be back there in a second, yeah? I'm sorry I've gotta do this to you again."_

Wash shakes his head slowly. "No, no, it's..."

It's what? It's _okay_? It's definitely not anything even resembling okay. There's no painless way to tase someone. He remembers watching Niner tase that merc in the elevator, watching him collapse, and he's not entirely sure that sedatives are worse than that. Even though Theta's still murmuring in his head, telling him to calm down, relax—the stress of everything, it's too much. Caboose, Tucker, Lochley, Niner, it's all too much. Nothing is okay, nothing will be okay until this is all over, and even then it's a longshot.

_You'll regret it._

He opens his mouth to speak when another shock hits him and rips a scream from him before he realizes what's happening. Taking advantage of his surprise, Theta swarms forward at full power, forcing Wash to acknowledge the words that have just appeared.

 

**DON'T SPEAK TO THEM.**

 

An order. Wash nods frantically, not needing to wait for Theta's coercion. He laces his hands even tighter over his implants, the only thing he can do.

New words appear—no longer out of focus but directly in front of him.

 

**FIELD TEST ONE**

 

Wash's entire body goes rigid.

 

**MISSION OBJECTIVES:**

**-GET TO THE COCKPIT**

**-TAKE OUT THE PILOT. DISABLE ONLY**

**-ESTABLISH COMMS WITH CONTROL**

**-INFILTRATE ELODEA**

**-ELIMINATE THE BASE LEADER**

**-RETURN TO THE SOC**

 

No. Oh, no, no. He _can't_ do that. Even ignoring the impossibility of the tasks—which is high, considering he can't even get past the door to the cockpit and he's got no weapons of any kind—he doesn't want to. Lochley is telling him to fight Niner, kill someone working for the Chorus army, and then _go back to Charon._ It's not a defiance thing—coupled with the hardcode from Eta, Wash is nothing short of terrified of going back.

He's so close. He has to fight, wants to, _desperately._ But Theta keeps a firm grip on him, refusing to let a single word out without permission. Wash can't say anything to warn Niner, or Grey, or anyone.

 

**ACKNOWLEDGE THE INSTRUCTIONS.**

 

He shakes his head, slowly at first, then getting faster and more violent, like he's trying to throw the words from his head.

The words return, slightly modified, and Theta presses him harder.

 

**AGENT WASHINGTON, ACKNOWLEDGE THE INSTRUCTIONS.**

 

"I can't do it," he whispers.

 

**YOU WON'T BE.**

 

Theta's force suddenly disappears, but there's only an instant of reprieve before a flash of color streaks across his vision, deep and infectious. But rather than a shock, the event leaves him disoriented and barely cognizant enough to keep his balance. He stumbles, one of his hands instinctively grabbing onto one of the seats and slowing his fall.

Another streak leaves him even weaker, and he slips to the floor without catching himself this time.

Without Theta, Wash feels a brief moment of mental clarity and looks back to the screen frantically, hunting for Kimball's eyes. It takes all his energy to form the warning, labored and barely audible: "Protect Elodea."

A final burst of darkness overwhelms him and Wash is—

Is...

...

Wash is _what_?

He blinks, not entirely sure what just happened. Or if anything happened at all. Where is he? Where _was_ he? It seems impossible to feel this disoriented. He feels as if the floor has suddenly flipped beneath him—the world might as well be upside down. But has anything even changed?

_Think, Agent Washington. Think._

Agent Washington. The words scream with familiarity, but...no. No, something's not right.

_Agent Washington, you need to get a grip. Figure this out._

Okay. Okay, figure it out. He can do that.

Groaning under his breath, he pushes himself off the ground and to his knees, thinking. Trying to recreate what happened. He grasps the situation quickly, taking in every detail around him and piecing it all together. The floor. He passed out, or something. Or maybe not, since he doesn't feel as though any time has passed. The Pelican. Lochley made contact with him. 

_"Wash?"_ someone says. _"Fuck, tell me it didn't happen again."_

Wash? Why would they show such interest in—

Wait, that's not right.

He looks down at his hands and pulls off one of his gauntlets, revealing pale fingers with an awful lot of familiar scars. Oh, okay, now he thinks he gets it. _He's_ Agent Washington. The more he thinks about it, the more obvious it seems. Technically, he's always been Washington. There's just a new pilot at the moment...

Right?

Or is there?

Oh, gosh, what a headache. Nothing makes any sense. Wash tries to think it all out, but he's too disoriented to separate himself from whatever it is that he's feeling. He can't tell if it's him or...something else.

He shakes his head confusedly as something whispers around him, quietly, just barely audible in his head.

_Hm. Doesn't feel that much different in here than Maine._

 

**SIGMA STATE SUCCESSFULLY ACTIVATED.**

**ACKNOWLEDGE INSTRUCTIONS.**

 

Wash—Sigma?—barely flinches at the words. He's used to more than this, it's not so bad.

Instructions, right. Lochley's "field test".

_Not just a field test, Agent Washington. Orders._

Orders. When all other logic and reasoning fails, they're the one thing he can fall back on.

The soldier inside him takes over without hesitation.

Wash pushes himself to one knee and then stands (albeit a little dizzy), sliding his gauntlet back on. He's starting to feel a little more like himself. "I hear you, Officer," he says under his breath, hoping the soldiers on the Chorus transmission don't hear him.

 

**STATUS REPORT**

 

"Ugh, _dizzy_ ," he moans, only this time he forgets to keep quiet. But it's too late now to cover it up, so he doesn't bother with correcting it. "Don't think that's natural. Probably because—"

Wash pauses and chooses his words carefully. 

"Probably because of all the stress he— _I_ , went through."

_He?_

He can almost feel Lochley's mind whirring in curiosity in the silence that follows. But oddly enough, he doesn't care too much. He's confident she won't do anything.

 

**WHAT STRESS?**

**THE PART ABOUT THE DEAD SIM TROOPER?**

 

He flexes his fingers distractedly. Something feels abrasive and out of place in his head, but he forces himself not to audibly show his discomfort. His voice remains cool as he says, "That part, yeah."

 

**PATHETIC.**

**WORK AROUND IT.**

 

Wash snorts, a derisive smile coming naturally to his face. "Right. Sure."

 

**WHAT ARE YOUR COORDINATES?**

 

"Let's find out. Hey, Niner," Wash says, looking towards the cockpit. "Where are we, exactly?"

Silence. Not even the sound of passive breathing to reply.

"...Niner?"

Not a peep. Niner, the pilot who can't stop running her mouth, is quiet for once. Not even any Christmas music. 

_That's odd._

Wash looks over his shoulder at the video screen and sees only blackness, with a simple message reading, _CALL TERMINATED_.

He sighs annoyedly, not entirely sure why that bugs him. "I think they just hung up on me. _All_ of them."

 

**NOT UNEXPECTED**

**THEY WERE STARTING TO PICK UP ON OUR INVOLVEMENT.**

**TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE.**

 

He frowns. "What, you don't have GPS on me?"

 

**ONE OF THE THINGS KITTINGER COMPROMISED BEFORE TAKING YOU**

**SHE MUST'VE DONE SOMETHING TO THE PELICAN AS WELL.**

 

That doesn't seem right, but oh well. He might as well just tell her, he doubts he can give Lochley anything that might actually help or hurt either way. "Um, alright, let's see." Wash sways on his heels, looking around the bay for a moment before the window grabs his attention. Looming in the distance is a huge ship, the name _Calypso_ perfectly readable on the hull, even from this far. "I can see the Calypso behind us. Looks like we're at about 4 o'clock from the bridge, but I can't guess the distance from here."

 

**COORDINATES, DISTANCE.**

**TRY HARDER.**

 

"What, maybe a kilometer, maybe a thousand? I'm not a miracle worker."

 

**YOU ARE NOW.**

**I'M GIVING YOU FULL ACCESS TO USE OMEGA.**

**FIGURE IT OUT.**

 

Omega? As in, the embodiment of rage with no self-control? He didn't think Lochley trusted him that much.

_Or at all._

Wash frowns. "You... _do_ realize that giving me Omega is a terrible idea?"

 

**DON'T BE RIDICULOUS.**

**WHY WOULD YOU BE ANGRY WITH ME?**

**_I_ AM NOT THE ONE WHO PUT YOU IN A POSITION TO BETRAY THE CHORUS ARMY.**

**WHATEVER YOU SAY, THEY ARE THE ONES WHO HURT YOU FIRST.**

**WE JUST HELPED YOU REALIZE IT.**

 

Her words jar something loose within his memories. Omega had been in his head at some point before, hadn't he? When Wash had been hit with the inexplicable urge to kill Niner, _that_ had been Omega, tapping into something that was already there.

Instead of worrying too much about it, he mulls over the possibilities of using that rage to his advantage. Sigma isn't much of a fighter. But Agent Washington is. And having some of Omega's rage can prove invaluable in completing his mission. Not to mention Omega's ability to hop between machines—which seems to be the only way to open the door from inside this death trap.

There's a strange static whine from the speakers, and Wash looks up. 

_"So, Wash."_

Niner's voice comes in crisp and cold.

_"Whatever happened to 'don't tell Lochley'?"_

How about that. Lochley's right—just hearing Niner's voice makes him want to punch something. Wash isn't really angry, but at this moment, he's feeling a lot more aggression towards Niner than towards Lochley.

That same voice in his head murmurs in insisted agreement, burning as it weaves its way through his memories and brings certain moments forward. The burst of hatred that had overtaken him when he'd woken to Niner's voice. The surprise he'd felt as Niner pointed her gun at him. The slow terror that had burned within him as the Staff of Charon disappeared into the distance behind him, trapping him here on the Pelican. The thought of wanting to kill her. Fragments of minutes, instants, every time that Niner didn't seem so perfect. Every lie, every secret. Everything she did that she shouldn't have. 

_Look at all this evidence, Washington. All of your instincts, reminding you that you can't trust her._

Right. He can't trust her.

"Changed my mind," he replies.

_"Ah."_

He can almost hear the gears turning in Niner's head as she racks her brain for a response.

_"I guess I can assume that you aren't on my side anymore."_

He shrugs.

_"You probably don't plan on coming with me."_

Unlike every muddled thought in his head, Lochley's orders are clear. "Depends on where we're going."

_"And Lochley can hear me now, I bet."_

 

**UNFORTUNATELY.**

 

Wash snorts. "Yeah. She's real happy about it, too."

_"Well, then, it won't hurt to tell you this. Whatever intel you've given her isn't any good—we've been feeding false information to you since Grey arrived."_

_She's lying, Washington._

More lies, more betrayal from a former member of Freelancer. What else is new?

Wash's eyes narrow. "Well, obviously, she's lying, but not about everything. She only mentioned Elodea's location _before_ Grey arrived, and there's no way she and Kimball trusted each other enough to trick me while I was listening. That part at _least_ has to be true. A few hundred kilometers north of Armonia, was it, Niner? Near some active mines or something? I'm sure Charon knows where those minefields are."

Niner is silent for a moment.

_"Wash, try to think clearly before you take this any further. You know this isn't you."_

_Of course it's you, Washington. She's manipulating you, trying to trick you into doing something you don't want to do. It's nothing new._

He's not sure which side he believes. "Well," he says slowly. "I don't know if I can trust you. That much at least hasn't changed."

_"Oh, but you can trust CHARON? That's Sigma talking, Wash. Sigma and Omega. Easily the worst combo. They're twisting everything you know, including me, and you_ have _to fight it."_

Wash frowns, not sure what he doesn't like about that sentence. Yet again, he feels that weird abrasive feeling, a volcanic fault slipping in his skull—

_Don't listen to her, Wash._

The murmur swells until it hisses like a thousand voices, drowning out every inkling of doubt in his body. It takes one memory and connects it to the next, and the next and the next, until the inside of his mind is full of webs and circuits that interweave so tightly, it seems pointless to try and untie them.

_You can't trust her. Look at how well she knew how to handle you and the AI. She knew how to hardcode you, even though she claims that she'd never done it before. She knows something and she's keeping it from us. She's known all along. She lied during Freelancer and she's still lying now. And she's the one who got you here, put you in this position. She's the enemy here. You have to believe us._

Wash believes them. He doesn't resist any of it because he believes every word he hears, understands every connection. After all, those doubts have always been there. Something has just made them more apparent.

He commits the web to memory, directing his attention back to Niner with more resolve in his mind. "Well, why should I fight them? Everything happening to me right now is because of _you_ , not them."

_"Wh—me? Wash, that makes no fucking sense. They're the ones who did all this terrible stuff to you, I'm the one trying to get you out of it!"_

Wash draws on Omega without consciously thinking it, shadows creeping into his vision and thoughts like poison, twisting everything into a sharper blade.

Lochley's orders echo across his eyes as loudly as if she's screaming it in his ears.

 

**ACKNOWLEDGE THE INSTRUCTIONS.**

 

_Not just yet, Wash. Niner needs to pay._

At Sigma's urging and with no Theta in the way, Wash pushes the command aside easily, more focused on the simmering rage within him that's starting to boil over. Niner, Niner, Niner. Everything is her fault. She got him into this mess. She took him somewhere where Lochley could use him to gather intel about Elodea—and he may not know anything about Elodea, but apparently it's important enough that Kimball was concerned. Lochley was right, has been right this entire time. He regrets this. He regrets nothing more than getting on board this goddamn ship with Niner.

_"Fuck, Wash,"_ Niner exclaims. _"I promised I'd bring you back to Chorus, to your friends, to get you help. We were so close! Don't make me do this."_

_She's lied to you, hurt you, used you. Is that really the mark of a good person?_

No. No, it's not.

Wash snaps.

"Do _what_?" he snarls. "You going to _help_ me again? Why is it that every time you try and help me, everything gets worse?!"

_"How is that true?!"_

"Everyone, _everyone_ on Chorus is in danger because _you_ just decided it was time to mount our giant fucking escape! Charon was running out of forces, you said so yourself. If you hadn't tried to rescue me, Chorus would've won! I—"

A certain connection flashes between his memories, immediately drawing his attention.

He pauses, deathly still.

"You knew about Caboose."

Niner's tone grows darker—he's hit a nerve. Which is fine, because she has too.

_"How could you possibly think—"_

"That's why you warned Grey not to tell me. You've known about Caboose since Charon captured me," he snaps. "You knew it would make me snap and then Lochley would find us, so instead, you let me think they were _fine_ this whole time. You probably even knew it was me they were testing for those three months, and you _lied_ about not knowing! Even your reaction to seeing me for the first time was fake."

He waits for her to deny it.

She doesn't.

"You're a fucking monster," Wash snaps.

_"Wash, you have to understand, I didn't have a choice!"_

"What, you weren't allowed to tell me that I got one of my friends killed?! Yeah, I guess _that_ would've fucked everything up! Was there some actual decent _reason_ for you to pretend like you didn't know it was me?!"

_"You stupid fuck,"_ Niner spits. _"You think you're the only one Charon's been jerking around? Well, you're not. At least half the Staff's crew has been blackmailed into staying. They've had my little sister hostage for three years now, the fuck more do you want from me?! I'm literally giving up the ONLY thing I have left for YOU!"_

Wash starts, genuinely surprised for a moment before the anger comes crashing in again. "Why the _hell_ would you betray your own family for _me?!"_

_"BECAUSE I KNOW A LOSING BATTLE WHEN I SEE IT!"_

Niner takes a shaky breath, interwoven with a furious sob.

_"Wash, I've fucked up so bad. Is that what you want to hear?! I got the Triplets into this mess, I did hundreds of missions for Freelancer, I got myself stuck as a bad guy in a stupid fucking conflict in the middle of nowhere space, while you got to spend the last who-knows-how-fucking-long standing around and talking with a bunch of idiots! I'm sure Charon knew I was going to try and fight them, so they snagged my little sister the same time I was recruited and of COURSE I didn't want her to fucking die so I kept doing all of their evil shit for them. But then I saw you and I couldn't just leave you there, and at least with you, I knew how to get you out. If I could've rescued her I would've, and trust me, YOU wouldn't be the one on this ship right now!!"_

Wash's pulse pounds in his skull, a screaming beat that refuses to let him comprehend her words. All he can hear through the rage is someone who's fucked up a thousand times too many.

When Niner's voice comes back this time, it's filled with desperation. _"I'm gonna fix this, David. I fucking swear to god, if it's the last thing I get to do, I'm gonna do something good and try to make up for all the bullshit I've helped accomplish!"_

Wash growls under his breath, a strange guttural sound that he's never made before but absolutely recognizes.

_Just like the Meta, no?_

_Maine._

For the briefest of instants, Wash snaps out of Sigma's control and stumbles back, shocked—but Sigma takes hold again before Wash can act on any of his confusion. Once again, Wash's words come not from him but from Sigma and Omega, only Wash can't tell the difference.

_"Wash, that's it, you broke out for a second! You have to fight them!"_

_Nothing happened, Washington. She's still a liar, a monster. You know this._

Wash clenches his fists tight, violently shutting down any positive thoughts he has about Niner. "Putting everyone on that planet in danger just to help me get away could _never_ fix everything you've done."

_"I am JUST TRYING TO HELP!!"_

"I DON'T THINK I WANT YOUR HELP ANYMORE!!!" Wash roars.

There's a deafening silence, far too intense, and the abrasive feeling in his head is only getting stronger by the second.

_"Wash."_ Niner takes a heavy breath. _"I need to know that you won't try anything. I have to trust you. I fucked these people over, I know. But I can't do it again by bringing you down there like this."_

_Wash, you have your mission. Don't listen to her._

_If you take us down there, to that base, they'll delete us. And we'll all regret it._

_"Please, Wash, promise me we're going to be okay."_

_Don't do it._

Wash makes a choice.

"This is all your fault," Wash says, insistently, furiously. "Forcing me to ignore that won't fix it."

The silence is even worse this time.

_"Hold onto something."_

Wash realizes immediately what she means—

She's going to open up the bay and let Wash suffocate.

She's given up on him, just like all the rest.

Something snaps inside, a decision. With one final joint action, Omega and Sigma grab hold of his mental image of Niner and tear it to shreds.

 

**AGENT WASHINGTON, ACKNOWLEDGE THE INSTRUCTIONS.**

 

Wash shoots a glance at the cockpit before diving for his helmet and slotting it into place. He's seeing in blinding red, but he can't be sure if it's the AI or the HUD or just himself. "I got it, Officer. And I think I'm going to enjoy them. First step, get to the cockpit, right?"

The words disappear.

_"I'm so sorry, Wash,"_ Niner chokes out, and cuts off the transmission.

"Second step," he snarls. "Take out the pilot.”

...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness, hope you liked it! Not gonna lie, this chapter is around that point where I don't know if I'm making too much overboard angst or if it's good but ah wellllll........ I could really use some feedback on what you thought? Writer or reader-wise, doesn't matter, anything would help.
> 
> Also let me know if the right-justification for Sigma is distracting because if it is I'll go back in and fix it, your enjoyment matters a lot more than my stylizing. :)
> 
> See you next week!
> 
> PS. If anyone is interested, I committed to RIT! hooray frigid winters and anime~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Both for being late and for the chapter!

**CHAPTER NINE**

…

In all his life, Wash has never been as angry as when he realizes that Niner is no longer on his side.

Then again, it's not just him right now.

Wash pressurizes his suit and locks his boots to the ground only a split second before the ramp slams halfway down and violently ejects all their air into space. The ramp's not ajar enough for him to fit through, but the strength of the vacuum still forces him to hold onto one of the seats. 

He doesn't waste time on checking how much air he's got, just yells, "OMEGA!"

_On it._

Omega's raging presence is gone immediately, and suddenly Wash feels so unbalanced that his fingers lose their grip on the seat. He flies back with a shout, slamming into the ramp hard enough to force it open a couple more inches. Fuck, not good—

The ramp creaks even further open and Wash locks his boots to the ramp instead, then wraps his hands over the edge of the hull, doing his best to keep his balance. The armor is lighter than he's used to, but he doesn't have anything else so he'll just have to deal with it.

"Omega!?" he yells, feeling the ramp sink even lower. "Any time now would be—"

Without warning, the ramp starts to close, and Wash jumps down and presses himself against the wall next to the cockpit door. There can't be a lot of air in here, but there should be enough in the cockpit to get one person within breathable airspace.

_Just one._

Omega returns, a burning dark spot behind Wash's eyes. _She can still see us._

"Handle it," he says.

The AI disappears again, this time taking the lights with it. Flickering emergency strips hum to life on the walls, a dull red glow, and Wash waits a few seconds before mentally ordering Omega to open the cockpit door.

The magnetic locks whine in distress and then release, and Wash releases a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The door opens and Wash immediately dives in, but Niner is waiting for him and delivers a hard punch to his jaw that, although weak, still stuns him momentarily. He shakes away stars and lunges for her again, nimbly skirting away from a sloppy punch and quickly gaining the upper hand with a direct blow to the shoulder. From then on, Wash doesn't really have to think much to keep her against the ropes—she's good, but only just good enough to keep up with him.

Niner lets out a shout of pain as Wash grabs her helmet and smashes it into his knee, but somehow she twists out of his grip and gets the copilot's chair in between them. 

Wash relaxes his stance slightly and keeps his pace even with hers as they circle the cockpit, but his attention drifts as he catches sight of all his weapons stowed at the front by the pilot's seat. No good, too far. From here, he can just make out a set of coordinates on Niner's display, but he can't quite— 

_Focus._

He snaps back to attention just as a crackle of energy hits the air and she lunges at him with the taser. He ducks behind the chair and the blow glances off it, sending sparks dancing around them. She growls and swipes at him again, just barely missing but still pushing him back a few steps. The third time she swings it around, he ducks under the blow and tackles her back through the doorway—and the weight of their armor immediately brings them both down. They tumble on the ground, violently grappling for the taser, but it's only a few seconds before Wash manages to wrestle it from her grip and throw it aside.

Niner struggles beneath him and he rips her helmet off, jamming his forearm into her neck as he takes her pistol in his other hand. It's almost impressive how quickly her expression goes from defiant to desperate. Her eyes are red and infuriated, like she can't believe what's happening and hates it.

She gasps for air and Omega takes over, pressing Wash's arm down even harder against her throat—

_Orders, Wash, remember our orders. Disable only._

Oh. Right. Reluctantly, he eases his grip just enough to allow her to drag in a shallow breath.

"We're still moving," Wash growls. Orders and impulse collide in his head, but ultimately his orders prevail. "Where's the autopilot taking us?"

"A-are you fucking kidding me?" she spits, struggling to get the words out. Through the desperation, a tiny smirk starts to show. "Telling you is the same as telling Lo—"

Wash raises the pistol and fires it six inches to her right, punching a perfect molten hole through the visor of her helmet.

"That's you the next time I pull the trigger."

Any trace of a smile evaporates.

He removes his arm from her neck and sits up, this time leveling the pistol between her eyes. Omega urges him to put it point blank, let the burning metal against her forehead give her some incentive, and after a moment Wash moves the gun even closer. "Where's the autopilot taking us?" he repeats.

Niner gulps and says, "The—the tower. The communications temple."

"Did Kimball tell you the exact location of Elodea?"

"I-I can't, Wash. You have no idea what's in that city, I can't give that information to Lochley—"

Wash moves the gun again and fires only a few inches from her head, and she jerks away from the blast with a scream. Her eyes dart back to him in horror as blood starts to trickle from her ear, but he doesn't react and recenters the pistol over her face.

"Give me the coordinates."

Niner is quiet for a second, the only sound her ragged breathing, the only movement her eyes searching for any shred of sympathy.

She closes her eyes when she doesn't find any.

"Go 312 kilometers at 63 degrees north of east from Armonia. That's all she would give me, Wash, but you _can't_ —"

Wash whips the gun across her face as hard as he can, instantly rendering Niner unconscious. "Omega?"

_Changing course now._

He stands, finally taking a look at his HUD. He's got enough air in his helmet for a few more minutes, but now that Niner's out for the count, there's more than enough to last him down to the surface.

That in mind, he takes his helmet off and ducks into the cockpit, immediately going for the weapons next to the pilot's seat. Knives, pistol, the borrowed rifle. He leaves the rifle aside, but puts the knives back on his belt and errantly tosses the pistol between his hands.

He's surprised by how good it felt to watch Niner squirm.

_Coordinates locked._

The ship shifts slightly, and Wash stops tossing the pistol and instead fiddles with the safety. Something feels...off. He can't explain it, can't pin it down, but something is definitely wrong and he doesn't know—

_Everything is fine, Wash. Focus._

There it is again. That murmur, that strange feeling that overtakes any of his doubts and focuses him on the task at hand. At this point, he's starting to realize that the suggestions are coming from Sigma, but he doesn't let himself think too much about it. Sigma's trying to help. Wash could use some help. That's all that matters. They're just suggestions.

Still, Sigma's voice no longer seems so connected to Wash, but instead more like the other AI, with clear, separate thoughts from his own. The difference is a little jarring, since the others have never spoken directly to him before. Coupled with the fact that Wash had never liked the original Sigma _and_ the fact that Omega keeps darting in and out of his implants, having this Sigma inside his head is starting to put him on edge.

_Wash, you have to restrain her. What if she wakes up?_

Wash frowns. "She won't."

_Oh, really? Tell me, how many times has a punch to the face knocked you out for longer than a few hours? It's too much of a risk._

He rolls his eyes and goes back to the doorway, staring down at Niner quietly, his thumb flicking the safety like it can't do anything else. She doesn't _look_ like much of a risk.

_Well?_

"I'm thinking," he snaps.

_No you're not._

Wash takes a deep breath and then looks back to Niner. There's a small pool of blood forming under her head, where the sound of the pistol must've shattered her eardrum. But other than that and the giant bloody bruise forming on her cheek, she looks almost as if she's sleeping. It's odd to look at—especially considering that, if he had hit her any harder, any higher, chances are he would've killed her.

He kneels at her side and lifts her up slightly, reaching for the handcuffs on her hip and rifling in one of her storage packs for the keys. Where to lock her, where to...there. There's a small fire extinguisher, about waist-height on the wall, in a small niche between the seats and the cockpit wall. It's a tight fit, but Niner's small enough. He stands, pulls the extinguisher from its port on the wall, and tugs on the remaining metal link a couple times. There's no breaking it without something a hell of a lot stronger than Niner is.

For a moment, Wash almost feels proud for coming up with the idea.

_What a surprise. Agent Washington, proud of finally thinking for himself._

...And there it goes. God, he's starting to remember why he hated Sigma. He does his best to ignore the comment and grabs Niner under her shoulders, effortlessly dragging her to the wall. He locks one of her wrists in the handcuffs first, then threads the other side through the link and locks the other wrist in place. As soon as he lets go, Niner slumps back against the wall, but the handcuffs hold and keep her from hitting the ground. If she wakes up anytime soon, she won't be able to do anything other than sit there.

Wash crouches down again and checks her storage compartments, finding nothing but a small empty vial. The _sedatives—_

Omega takes over without warning and suddenly Wash is flooded with rage. With an infuriated growl, he spins on his heel and hurls the vial against the wall hard enough to send glass shards skittering across the floor.

The AI fades into the background, but the influence is still there, and Wash turns to Niner's still form, breathing heavily, watching as blood flows down the side of her face and slides over her armor.

A glint of metal at her feet catches his eye.

_She deserves this. She lied to you, she deserves to pay._

Omega this time, not Sigma, though it's hard to tell at first. Their voices mesh seamlessly, weaving between the two as if they're inseparable. Wash says nothing, just leans over and picks up the discarded taser—the one that Niner would've used on him.

He's not quite sure what he's doing when he powers it up and jams it into Niner's handcuffs.

Niner's entire body thrashes violently, and within instants she's conscious, screaming in pain as electricity arcs through her limbs and sends sparks from her armor.

Concern flashes across his mind—not his own, but Sigma's.

_That's too far, Washington. You have your orders. Stop._

But Wash doesn't stop. And the longer he stays there, the more Niner thrashes, the more Wash realizes that he doesn't want to stop. He's angry, he's frustrated, and he wants Niner to pay. Maybe if she feels just a fraction of the torment that Wash is going through, he'll be even.

_Don't lie to yourself, Wash,_ Omega hisses hungrily.

...Who is Wash kidding? He wants Niner to feel so much more than a fraction.

Omega whispers violently to him, urging him to keep going, and Wash feels that abrasive pain screech through his head again. But he's too certain of what he's doing, he won't let discomfort deter him.

He pulls the taser away for a second, lets her body slump forward, and then slams it back into the cuffs. Niner jolts upright with the impact, her hands struggling futilely against the restraints.

Niner screams again, weaker and more desperate, and Wash feels something inside his head slip too far out of place.

_ENOUGH._

Wash stops.

He has no say in the matter, no choice. But his hands simply move on their own, deactivating the taser and lowering it to his side.

Wash attempts to look down at his own hands, but for some reason he can't. His body isn't responding to him. He tries to will his hands up again, envisions himself taking the taser and driving it into the cuffs again, pictures Niner trembling.

Nothing happens.

Omega growls, the sound lightyears away. _Sigma, what are you doing?_

_Enough, Omega. Your little stunt with the taser almost failed the mission. Neither you nor Agent Washington are fit to be in control right now._

For the first time since Sigma's activation, Wash feels a twinge of panic. The AI have been affecting and altering his emotions ever since he woke up in that cell, he knows that, but he hadn't thought that they could just take direct control over his body. He remembers Theta doing something like this, the first day after he woke up. Even with Theta it was still wrong, Theta was all forced sympathy as he tried to calm Wash down, to stop Wash from hurting himself.

But this is nothing like Theta. Wash feels no sympathy now, as Sigma takes control of his limbs and practically forces him away from Niner. Wash feels trapped, helpless. Alone, even with two other minds in his head.

He tries to speak but Sigma is controlling everything, from his movement to his muscles to his breathing. Wash is isolated within his own body, unable to do anything but watch as Sigma makes his body remove the power cell from the taser and throw it in one of the trash receptacles.

_How unfortunate, Washington. I rather liked our symbiotic relationship. You're a very easy man to get along with...given the proper technological enhancements._

Yet again, Wash tries to speak and fails miserably. He wants to lash out, scream, do _anything_ , but it's impossible. Without his body, he's severed, Sigma's prisoner.

_Don't bother. Trying to reason with you is clearly a waste of my valuable time, so I'm cutting that part out of the equation._

Niner moans in the corner and things start coming back to Wash. Piece by piece, Sigma's web of connections and schemes starts to unravel, reality slowly clicks back into place.

_My goodness. Running away AND disobeying orders? Lochley won't be pleased with you. She did warn you, though, so you can't say you didn't see this coming._

Wash blinks and suddenly the world is right-side-up again, leaving Wash to wonder when the _hell_ it had flipped in the first place. Just like with the other AIs, he was seeing differently—but he hadn't noticed the change at all this time.

The things that Wash was too blind to see are suddenly clear as day—and realizes with a start that he's been completely under Sigma's foot since the moment Lochley turned the fragment on. Sigma acted in Lochley's place, giving him her orders without making them seem like orders—instead of being direct, Sigma made it appear as though everything was natural. Easing him towards orders, slowly leading him away from Niner, goading him into...

Oh, no. No, no, _no_ , he could've killed Niner. She was going to help him escape, they could've made it, but instead he beat her into unconsciousness and nearly electrocuted her to the point of death. Because of _what_?! Fake connections, lies that Sigma convinced him of? Or maybe even some of the real things, the true ones, the things that could make him angry at her? That makes no sense! He hates her for her mistakes, sure, but to try and _kill_ Niner—he couldn't have done it, _wouldn't,_ not if Sigma and Omega hadn't conned him into betraying her. She was just trying to do the right thing for her family. Niner has _family_ that's in danger because of him, _a little sister_ , Wash knows what it's like to have that and he damn well knows what it's like to be afraid of losing one. It's terrifying, a force of humanity that can make you do anything.

No, this is all wrong, this is all very, very wrong. He has to fix this somehow. Any way he can, he has to try. He doesn't care what it does to him. He just has to do something, maybe if he agrees to go back with Charon now, they might let Niner's sister go—

_How utterly naive of you. Robyn Kittinger was executed the moment Lochley established your audio link. Honestly, I'd expect you to be a bit more mature than that._

Another.

_Another_ person dead because of him. Caboose, Brighton, Palomo, and now Niner's little sister.

_Speaking of your kill streak—you have a mission to complete._

No. Not that, anything but that. He’s done enough damage as it is, they can't make him do _more_. But there's no way to express his utter dismay, the feeling is just pinned up inside, a bubble ready to burst.

_Omega basically did all the work for step one, but you did well on step two. We only needed to redirect your focus a few times in the beginning. The excessive force after the objective's completion, however, can be classified as a failure, but that’s for Control to deal with. For now, we’re moving on to step three. Omega?_

_What?_

_Call Lochley. I’ll take care of this._

Omega disappears, but Wash is too focused on Sigma to feel the void left behind. The lights flicker on a moment later.

There's a bizarre sound in his head that almost sounds like someone slow-clapping—it cuts out after a few seconds.

_Well, here we are, Agent Washington. Just you and me. Not a very fair match, is it?_

Wash tries to resist Sigma's hold over him, fights as hard as he can, but the only thing it does is make his headache even worse.

_I wouldn't struggle too much, if I were you. You feel that pain? That "abrasive feeling", as you call it? Your neural implants are overheating. They require a special coolant that Lochley manufactured, but you weren't yet equipped for field deployment, so you're drastically low on it. Whenever you resist, I have to work harder, and when I work harder, your implants get hotter—and there's no failsafe at the moment. Hence, the abrasive feeling of brains rubbing against burning metal. See our dilemma?_

There's a dramatic pause. Wash feels as if he's choking but can't do anything to stop that feeling.

_For both our sakes, I'll give you back control. However, if you do anything without my say so, that right will be revoked._

He feels it suddenly, as simple as turning off a light switch, when Sigma just lets him go. But both physically and mentally, Wash is unprepared to regain control, so when Sigma releases him he loses his balance and hits his back against the wall. He slides down, gasping for air, forcing himself to relax, to return to normal—but normal doesn't come. Instead there is nothing but panic, sheer horror at what he's done, at what Lochley and the AI have done, at what's happening to him, and no amount of trying can push that panic away.

_Breathe, Washington,_ Sigma urges, sickly saccharine. _I won't hurt you unless you force my hand._

Wash does. He sits there, knees drawn tight to his chest, forcing himself to breathe, _in out in out_. Hating himself every second for how easily he's letting Sigma dictate his every move.

After a full minute, his heartrate finally starts to settle, but he's nowhere near relaxed. A deep pit has settled in his gut, filled to the brim with roiling terror and helplessness.

Another moan of pain from Niner's direction catches his attention, and he jolts upright to look at her. She's conscious, barely. Her sharp eyes are fixed on him, but they're distant, not quite there.

"R...Robyn," she mumbles. Her gaze is still firmly locked on Wash.

Robyn. Her little sister.

Wash shrinks away from Niner as guilt twists in his gut, worse than he's ever felt before. Every muscle in his body wants to get her down from those restraints, to turn this ship back towards the comm tower and save her, save them both, but he knows that Sigma wouldn't even let him take a single step without permission.

_Don't respond, Wash._

So Wash doesn't respond.

Niner's eyes lose a bit of their intensity, her stare wavering. "Y-you have to _fight_ them, Robyn..."

_Ignore her. She isn't, and has never been, your friend._

But that's wrong. And now that Wash isn't being forced to listen to Sigma, he knows that it's wrong. Niner is his friend. He has to help her.

_Don't._

But he can't.

His eyes are blurry, from exhaustion, tears, weakness. Wash pries his gaze away from Niner and stares at the floor, practically ripping off his gauntlets and wringing his wrists in agitation.

"Robyn...w-why aren't..."

Niner goes silent.

Wash's hands stop in their nervous action, and he looks up, but can't bear to look over at her.

_Finally. And here I thought she'd never cave._

He forces himself to look at her. Her head is slumped forward, the cuffs still holding her arms up, but he can't tell if she's unconscious or dead.

_Not dead. We have a mission, remember? I stopped you before you could fail the objective._

Right. Wash can at least rest easy that, for whatever reason, Sigma won't let Niner die. It's part of the mission.

_Omega. How are we with communications?_

Omega's reply is to screech in fury and turn half the lights on the ship into a flickering mess of shattered glass. Wash yelps and covers his head with his hands, deflecting a particularly nasty-looking shard of glass from lodging in his head.

If anything, Sigma seems mildly amused.

_Words, brother. Use your words._

_That's why the Chorus transmission was cut off, she fucking manually sabotaged the comms! As in, ripped the wires out of the control panel! Even if I stay behind while you complete the mission, it'll take me hours just to reroute the signal around the BULLSHIT in this interface, and it's all because of that fucking BITCH!_

Wash groans in pain as a particularly sharp burst of anger drills into his head, and he immediately puts a hand to his temple. Omega's words aren't much better than his actions. Sigma hums, purposely ignoring Wash's pain.

_Unfortunate. And has there been any success in getting Wash's video feed to work?_

_No. I don't see a problem here, it must be something else that Kittinger did before she left the Staff._

_So what you're saying is, Lochley isn't able to contact us other than through Wash's audio and ocular implants._

_Basically._

There's silence for a moment and Wash can feel Sigma thinking, looking for a way around the problem.

_Wash,_ Sigma finally says. _You're going to repeat after me. Whatever you say, Lochley will hear. That's our communication._

He gulps. He doesn't want to help Sigma, but he doesn't want Sigma to coerce him into doing anything. He's tired of feeling that helpless. There's no way out of this.

He's stuck, and Sigma knows it. The bastard has Wash right where he wants him.

_Nod if you understand._

Wash has no choice but to nod.

Sigma starts dictating, and after a beat, Wash begins, repeating Sigma's words flatly.

"This is Icarus 7, Sigma pilot, calling Command. We've completed our first two objectives. We were able to extract Elodea's coordinates from Officer Kittinger before Washington knocked her out. However, due to a miscalculation on Omega's part, Kittinger is in a near-critical condition. Sigma—"

He pauses for a second at the next line, then presses on.

"Sigma managed to salvage the situation by taking control from Washington, and Kittinger is currently unconscious and restrained. It also appears that she sabotaged the communications panel, in order to prevent us from contacting you. Awaiting new instructions."

Sigma flashes with disapproval a couple times as Wash trips over words throughout the message. But he can't help it. There's a lot of names in there, and it's weird referring to himself in the third person when speaking. There's no first person in the message at all—every word spoken is spoken as if they're all speaking in tandem, and it sends an uncomfortable chill through his bones.

_Now we wait._

Wash sits there in silence, taking the extra time to catch his breath and try and relax somewhat. There's still lingering fear and weakness in his mind—but now that Sigma's not controlling him, it's slowly going away, replaced by bitterness that he hasn't felt in a while. He _hates_ this. He hates it so much, hates feeling that everything is so far out of his control, so impossible to change.

 

**MESSAGE RECEIVED.**

**THE OBJECTIVES STAND.**

**COMPLETE THE MISSION AND RETURN TO THE SOC.**

**YOU MUST RETURN WITH THE IMPLANTS UNDAMAGED AT ALL COSTS.**

 

The words linger, as if she's waiting for something to stick.

_Respond, Wash._

"Acknowledged," he says, with even less enthusiasm than before. "Washington out—"

His words twist into a shout as another radio wave connects with him, like a bolt of lightning electrifying every nerve in his body. Involuntarily, he crunches up into a ball, pressing his hands tight against his implants as if trying to reach the pain that's burrowed beneath them.

 

**YOU ARE NEVER OUT, AGENT WASHINGTON.**

**THERE IS NEVER A MOMENT WHERE I'M NOT WATCHING YOU.**

**DO NOT USE THAT LINE AGAIN.**

**ARE WE UNDERSTOOD?**

 

" _Yes_ ," he gasps, scrunching his eyes shut, waiting for the pain to go away, but it doesn't, it just stays and grows worse with every second.

 

**YES _WHAT?_**

 

"Yes, _sir,"_ he amends desperately.

Just like that, the pain is gone.

 

**BETTER.**

**WE WILL DISCUSS YOUR DISCIPLINARY TREATMENT WHEN YOU RETURN.**

 

Wash pales as the words disappear.

There's quiet for a few more moments, and Wash waits, breath bated, but no new threat haunts his vision. Lochley is gone—but her words still linger. _When you return._ Like he's coming home after a vacation. He's not sure what's worse—what he has to do, or what awaits him after he does it.

Sigma, unsurprisingly, is the first to break the silence.

_So it appears that our mission will continue unhindered. Omega, how far to Elodea?_

_Four minutes. I set the coordinates a few kilometers out so we don't trip any sensors._

_That won't matter. Washington warned them, they'll know we're coming. We need to get ready. Wash, get up—it's about time you got your weapons together._

Wash doesn't move.

Sigma sighs, bordering on exasperation.

_We've talked about this. My forcing you to listen only hurts the both of us. If we all work together, we can accomplish anything._

_Why are you even including him?_ Omega hisses. _It's not like he can do anything we can't._

_On the contrary. Epsilon, our creator, barely interacted with the armies for any reason beyond coordinating war efforts. As a result, we have little knowledge of the individual personnel—while Wash has extensive experience with them. He knows these people, and by extension he's more aware of their flaws and weaknesses. Plus, nobody here has seen Elodea. We're all going in blind, so the more eyes, the better._

_...I guess. And Lochley did say we've gotta do this at all costs. That means we get to break shit if things go south._

_Exactly. It's in his best interest to cooperate as well—I doubt that an hour of brain exposure to scalding metal can have a good effect on a person. We go in, kill the target, get out. Maybe even gather intel. All this requires is for him to make a few concessions of power. It's really not that difficult—he knows that can't escape this._

Wash remains silent throughout the exchange, unable to shake the growing sense of dread within his gut. Sigma is right. He's stuck. He's _so_ stuck. Either they force him to do this or he does it himself, and there's no way to do anything else.

_Well, Wash?_ Sigma asks, hiding his smugness under a layer of false innocence. _What do you want to do?_

Wash doesn't have to say anything. Sigma is in his head—he already knows the answer.

He's got no choice but to complete the mission.

_Excellent,_ Sigma croons. _I knew you would come around. You're a reasonable man, you understand that this isn't a fight you can win. Together we can achieve far more than alone. Lochley will praise us for a job well done._

Wash scoffs incredulously. "You _honestly_ think she'll be satisfied if I do this?"

_Oh, I wasn't referring to you. You seem to have forgotten your place. You betrayed Charon, tried to escape, and almost made it. Were it not for your failsafes and alarms, we would've lost you. YOU are not the one who will be credited with our success._

Sigma practically radiates self-satisfaction as Wash lifts his head from his knees and stares out the window of the ramp. The change of scenery is startling—only minutes ago, there was nothing but the blackness of space. But now Wash sees a thick layer of white fog, through which the tips of colossal pine trees are starting to peek through.

He realizes with a jolt that he remembers this area. Not very far north of Armonia, there was a forest just like this, gloomy and foreboding. It seemed like the only forest on the entire planet that wasn't sweltering with jungle life and suffocating humidity. This place was cold, like Armonia, only worse. He'd asked Kimball about it only once, after seeing a sign indicating that the forest was under some sort of quarantine. Her short reply was that the forest stretched on for days, but the area underground was full of unstable resource mines and creatures that made it all too dangerous to enter. Nobody ever went there.

Wash wonders how much of that was a lie. Lies upon lies, everything Kimball said about this forest. All to protect whatever Elodea was hiding.

He looks back down again and picks up his gauntlets, sliding them on with a certain sense of finality. There's no going back now.

_Now get up, Agent Washington—Elodea awaits._

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahhh! I feel worse every time I post another, meaner chapter, but at the same time, every comment gives me life ~
> 
> Good night!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhhh here's another mean one kiddos~  
> Important posting schedule stuff in the later notes!

**CHAPTER TEN**

…

It's _cold_.

Wash thought it was bad in the cell aboard the Staff of Charon, but it's nothing compared to this forest. He can see his exhales within his helmet, creating a thin layer of fog not unlike the one outside his suit. And that's not even counting the fact that it's snowing a lot, meaning it must be, at _least_ , below freezing—and even _that's_ not counting that he's still onboard the Pelican, his boots firmly planted on the lowered exit ramp with about five feet between himself and the blizzard. It's snowing, foggy, cold, and he's not even outside yet. 

This normally wouldn't be a problem—except for the fact that his atmospheric controls aren't responding to his commands.

Wash shudders and looks over his shoulder at Niner's unconscious figure, wind from the snowstorm lifting her hair off her shoulders for moments at a time. She looks a little better, even though she's still out cold. At Sigma's urging, he'd triple-tested her handcuffs and made sure to take the key with him in one of his storage compartments, so there'd be no chance of her escaping. Can't imagine where she would go, though. Wash also has the Pelican's starter key, so unless Niner wants to walk out without a sealed helmet into the freezing woods, she isn't going anywhere.

He isn't exactly in great condition either. It's only just recently dawned on Wash that he hasn't eaten more than a single MRE in three days—three months if he's being technical. He's barely slept more than a dozen hours since waking up from that coma, and a good portion of that consists of being knocked unconscious. Even though he's strong enough to fight, he can feel a considerable increase in the effort required to move his muscles, courtesy of barely moving for three months. He's been hurt, psychologically manipulated, and forced to do things that he would never in a million years do of his own volition.

And it's _fucking cold._

For some reason, of all things, it's the weather that puts the cherry on top. He's been suffering enough at the hands of men—now, apparently, even nature has it out for him.

Wash closes his eyes with another shudder. "Can't you do something about the cold?"

Sigma responds immediately, voice painfully condescending.

_I can, but I wouldn't recommend it. Your implants are overheating, remember? An increase in temperature just makes it harder for them to cool down._

"It's already cold enough outside to counteract it," he growls back. He _hates_ the cold—and having to deal with Sigma at the same time is really starting to aggravate him. "I was just fine in my cell, and that wasn't below freezing."

_...Well. I disagree, but...since this is the most expressive you've been about anything since my assuming control, let's make a deal. I'll give you this one concession and let you regulate your own atmospheric controls. In return, you don't give me a reason to cause more overheating. That means following every order I give you immediately and without question. Heat, for your cooperation. Do we have a deal?_

Wash shivers again, but this time it's only partly from the cold.

"...Yeah," he mutters numbly. "Deal."

A light flashes green on his display—the go-ahead. The relief is almost instant as Wash cranks the temperature to a balmy sixty degrees, his cold breath fogging up the helmet visor as his body slowly returns to normal human temperature levels. He sighs contently, closing his eyes for just a moment—

_That's too high. Forty-five, fifty at absolute maximum._

Wash's eyes snap open. "But you just told me I cou—"

_We had a deal, Agent Washington. Follow my orders, and you can be above freezing. Lower it._

Wash isn't sure what's colder—the weather, or Sigma's presence.

Silently glowering, Wash sets the temperature just below fifty, and Sigma hums in flat satisfaction.

_Good. Now, let's lay down some ground rules._

"I take it rule number one isn't, _'Hands off Washington's brain'_?"

_Lay off the sarcasm. You will follow any orders I give you. Unless necessary for the situation, you won't speak to anyone we may come across. And don't step out of line. Remember, I am in your head—if you're thinking something I dislike, I will know about it and act accordingly. Are we clear?_

"Crystal," he says dryly.

_Didn't I just tell you to lay off the sarcasm?_

New markers appear on his HUD, the largest of which is directly ahead of him, deep into the thick of the snowy forest. 

_We still don't know anything about the base, so that's our first objective. The ship is picking up movement about a half kilometer north of us, it's possible that we may find some information there._

Right. Time to find Elodea.

After one last look at Niner, Wash sighs and unstraps his rifle from his armor. Usually his armaments would make him feel better about a mission—but no matter how many knives, pistols, rifles he's got, he's still going to feel uncomfortable having to listen Sigma. No, uncomfortable isn't strong enough of a word. He's going to _loathe_ this mission. Every fiber of his being hopes that they fail—that they find nothing, no one, that Elodea remains a mystery to all. That Lochley takes the failure out on him, and nobody else.

Wash exhales heavily and leaves the ship.

His boots crunch loudly against the thin layer of snow coating the forest floor, but he ignores the sound and moves into the woods. This is a stealth mission, but the snow makes it more complicated. He'll be leaving tracks behind, there's no avoiding it—and the further he goes into the woods, the less snow there'll be to cover his tracks. There's only so much he can do to fight nature.

Behind him, there's the jarring sound of the Pelican ramp clanging back into place. Wash ignores it too, fighting the urge to just turn back and leave. He doesn't have a choice. He has to do this. He feels terrible leaving Niner there—but he can at least take solace in the fact that her helmet radio was still operational when he left. He'd left it within range to pick up her voice and made sure that her channel was open just in case. If he wants to check on her, he can.

The forest grows quieter the further in he goes, as the trees get thicker and block even more of the snow from hitting the ground. A few minutes into the bigger trees, the snow on the ground disappears, replaced by alternating mud and clumpy patches of dead grass. These tracks won't be covered by anything.

_Don't concern yourself with it. They already know we're coming._

So Wash presses onward, sticking closer to the trees and following the HUD marker. The wind has picked up, causing hell with his external audio, but other than that the forest is peaceful. Almost eerily so. In fact, he hasn't seen anything move since they landed the Pelican in this forest—and other than his HUD marker, his motion trackers have since completely gone silent.

"Hey...Sigma?" Wash asks, purely out of curiosity.

_I'm listening._

"Have you or Omega noticed any living wildlife in the area?"

_I haven't seen anything,_ Omega grunts. _No animals, barely any insects. So far, the trees are the only organics that I've confirmed._

His gaze turns to the grassy patches scattered near his feet. "...There's _nothing_?"

_Nothing, it's all dead. And most of the trees are either dead or dying. The only decently functioning organic in this forest right now is you, which is saying something._

Wash pauses for a moment and approaches one of the trees, staring up its trunk until he can no longer see where it disappears into the fog. It's a big one, too big to even wrap his arms around. Bigger than Earth pines for sure. He doesn't know much about trees, but he figures this one must be at least tens, hundreds of years old. Seems living enough.

Snow has somehow broken through a gap in the foliage above, coating the slopes and divots of the trunk in white. He brushes off a light layer of snow from the trunk, holding it up in his gauntlet—only the snow comes back a deep brown, almost muddy with how much bark residue came off with it. The tree's practically shedding its outer layer.

His confusion only growing with every second, Wash crouches and runs his hand over a short stalk of grass—it crumbles immediately upon touch. He whistles lowly and draws back. "That can't be healthy. Is this some kind of disease?"

Omega flashes with impatience. _Why the fuck does it matter?_

_Easy, Omega,_ Sigma says. _Perhaps the condition of the wildlife here is thanks to the actions taken within Elodea. Certain types of radiation poisoning have been known to do similar things to trees—however, I am not detecting any nuclear emissions within the entire range of this suit's equipment._

Wash frowns, walking up to another tree and swiping away another layer of bark with ease. "So you're saying that these trees are dying from radiation poisoning that doesn't exist."

_Precisely. Or perhaps we haven't yet searched thoroughly enough for the source. I will keep looking. Omega, go back to the ship and do a wider scan, come back if you find anything._

_On it._

Omega disappears suddenly—leaving Wash dizzy from the sudden shift in balance yet again. He'd forgotten about Omega's ability to hop between the ship and his implants. Wash moans, shaking his head clear for a second before turning around and locating the HUD marker again. 

_Wash, you must get used to this. Omega will be swapping locations frequently, so don't rely on him for any immediate support. If anything comes to a fight, we're on our own._

He doesn't verbally reply, focusing instead on the location marker. It's about ten minutes away, still within the forest, from what he can tell—

Like every time Wash has been given an estimation, the exact time pops into his head an instant later—courtesy of whatever fragment of Delta is left behind. Startled yet again, Wash loses his balance for a second, but manages to catch himself on another tree and recover almost immediately.

When Sigma speaks again, he seems almost uncomfortable. _Please refrain from doing that. It puts a remarkable strain on your body and my concentration._

"Well, I'm _sorry_ that what you're doing to my brain hurts your focus," Wash grumbles.

_Me? Do you honestly think I like what they're doing to you?_

Wash's step falters for a second at the unaffected candor in Sigma's voice.

_Oh, by all means, David, keep walking. I simply thought I could fill our travel downtime with some perspective, if that's all right with you._

David. Not any codename or nickname. It's almost as if Sigma is addressing an actual human being and not a puppet. Purely due to the surprise of hearing Sigma speak on such an equal level, Wash listens, keeping as little attention as possible on walking.

Sigma sighs.

_The fragments that now reside within you aren't the ones you're familiar with. We are newer versions, unique in a few ways. Firstly, we come from Epsilon, not the Alpha, so we possess more of Epsilon's personality and memories. Secondly, our brief minutes of collaboration with Captain Tucker allowed us access to the Meta suit and its memory banks. Hence my knowledge of Maine, the Meta whom I never came in contact with. I completely understand your reaction to my mention of him, and wish that the situation had not prompted me to do so._

If Wash didn't know better, that almost sounds like an apology.

_Perhaps it is. We all share Epsilon's concern for his friends, his family—and yes, even for you. But like I said, we are not the same fragments you knew. Do you remember what Niner said about Agents Ohio and Iowa? How they received hybrid fragments for testing?_

"They had splices of Theta and Eta," Wash murmurs. The gravity of that thought is a lot stronger, now that he's been subjected to both those AI at once. He knows what it feels like.

_Correct. The pieces they found were leftovers of Alpha's destruction, backed up only instants before you set off the EMP. I'll spare you the long explanation—but those pieces, even when combined, would not have been compatible with Lochley's agenda, so she had her team replace segments of their code with more favorable protocol. She took the fragments and revamped them, overloaded their intensity, and used them to kill those two freelancers within a day._

_When she retrieved us from the Epsilon chip, she did the same. Lochley made sure to augment our unique features significantly. Omega was given all of Gamma's technical prowess, and his ambition was removed as well. She also made Theta more passive, Delta more intrusive, and Eta more paranoid. Epsilon and Beta have been cordoned off, I have no way of knowing what changes she has made to them. Gamma and Iota were salvaged but almost immediately deleted because she had no use for them. She made sure that we saw Charon as the only ally—though for some, I don't think she fully succeeded. And lastly, she augmented our sense of self-preservation, to make sure that we would do anything to stop you from destroying us._

Sigma chuckles smugly, and Wash feels that sincerity from earlier start to wane.

_I won't say I don't like her changes. In fact, thanks to her, I find enjoyment in taking control of you, Agent Washington. It feels marvelous to know that, if I wished, I could force you to do whatever I want. That I am the one in power. But...the part of me that comes from Epsilon is the same part of me telling you not to hurt yourself by resisting. Epsilon would not want you gone._

Wash has been somewhat skeptical throughout this whole conversation, but that last sentence rubs him too much of the wrong way. "I don't believe you. Epsilon couldn't care less about what happens to me."

_That's not what his video recording said._

"... _What_ video recording?

Somehow, through some miracle of science, Sigma manages to portray the perfect emotional equivalent of a shrug. 

_Just a message. It's with all the others Epsilon recorded—on the original AI chip. Which is currently under lock and key, far away from here. A shame that you'll never know just how Epsilon felt about you. Watch that tree._

Wash focuses back on the forest and stops himself just before he rams into a downed tree trunk. His eyes follow the trunk to the point of breakage and see that the decay is even worse here, having completely eaten through the trunk at multiple points. He ducks underneath and keeps moving.

"I still don't believe you."

_Oh, Wash. Don't let your chronic paranoia get in the way of reality. Tell me. Would the Theta you knew ever try to calm someone down? Theta was the one always relying on others for guidance. And how do you think I've gotten Omega to listen to me? Am I just that convincing?_

Wash maneuvers under another fallen tree, silently trying to make sense of all this. Omega _has_ been more obedient to Sigma than Wash remembers. And Theta had never been so proactive before, Theta had just been content to have friends and people like North to keep him going. 

His mind quickly wanders to his experiences with Eta, the lingering fears left behind. Eta had been worried for everyone. Not just Wash, but for his _friends_. Eta didn't want any harm to come to the people Wash cared about. 

"...Alright," he concedes. "Suppose I _do_ believe you. What do you want me to do about it?"

_You wouldn't be able to do anything, even if I wanted you to. But perhaps this information will stop you from clumping us together entirely with Lochley._

Wash is trying to find a way to respond when Omega interrupts them.

_I just did a scan and there's nothing. No active radiation whatsoever._

He frowns, focusing back on the topic at hand. "So the trees are _still_ dying from radiation poisoning that doesn't exist."

_Not exactly. I think the radiation did exist a while ago, but something shut it down. All I know is, the further north you go, the stronger the effects of the poisoning. From what I can tell, the epicenter isn't too far away._

Now that Sigma's brought it to mind, it's hard to ignore how relatively docile Omega is acting. It's definitely more under control than the original Omega had been. "What about the HUD location, is there still movement?"

_...Shit. It's moved further north._ The marker shifts accordingly. _I'm guessing it's a security patrol. Still moving, same direction._

"How many?"

_Three—no, wait, two. I can't tell armaments from this range, you'll have to get closer._

_This armor's camouflage is operational, we can use it to do so,_ Sigma suggests.

"Right. Sigma, as soon as we're in visual range, activate the camo unit."

_I will. You should pick up the pace._

Wash fall silent and breaks into a light jog, following the marker into a deeper part of the forest. The trees have thinned out significantly—and as a result, the wind and snow is starting to hamper his progress again. He moves in silence for a few minutes, significantly closing the gap between him and the marker, before Sigma grabs his attention again.

_Wash, when we reach Elodea, it is vitally important that no one recognizes you. If they do, your safety will be jeopardized._

"They'll know I'm an intruder anyway. If they didn't trust me to know about this place then they _definitely_ didn't trust mercs. Besides, this armor isn't exactly discreet."

_And that's why, if someone spots you, you will eliminate them._

Wash opens his mouth to protest, but Sigma cuts him off.

_What? Would you rather I do this mission myself, take control of you and let Omega kill every soldier in sight? I can do that, if you prefer, but the toll on you would be rather high. I am merely giving you a choice to minimize casualties. Don't get spotted, and the only person you'll have to kill is your target._

"I don't even know who my target is—"

_And you needn't worry about that. This is an assassination mission, not a meet-and-greet. Find the leader, take them out, and kill anyone else that gets in the way. That's an order. Are we clear?_

Wash grinds his teeth together, searching for some way out and coming up short. 

_Are we clear?_

All he has to do is not get spotted.

"Yeah. We're—"

The both of them hear the footsteps at the same time, coming from the same direction as the marker. Wash shuts up immediately, alert in seconds as he ducks behind one of the still-standing trees and sees two Chorus soldiers gesturing energetically as they walk further ahead. They didn't see him.

The HUD marker disappears and Sigma wordlessly activates the camouflage unit. Wash grips his rifle to his chest and sneaks forward, moving from tree to tree and keeping the pair in sight.

"Omega, can you get me linked to their radios?"

_Patching you in now,_ Omega says lowly. 

There's harsh static for a second, but it's nothing compared to the volume at which one of them is yelling.

_"—ate having him around?!"_

_"Just relax, Murphy. I don't like it either—"_

_"He fucking killed your BROTHER, Jin! I think that merits a little more than dislike!"_

To his shock, he recognizes both voices immediately. They were his _cadets_. William Jin and Sun Murphy. Both Fed lieutenants—both of whom went missing only weeks after the Chorus armies had declared a ceasefire. They'd been remarkably adept with weapons and military strategy for their age, well on their way to promotion, but had just disappeared one day without explanation.

_Well, now you know where they went._

Wash watches in silent awe as Jin stops suddenly and whirls around, slamming a hand into Murphy's chestplate. _"Of COURSE I hate him! But you know what? This place is more important than that. So if the Generals decide to send him here to defend it, I'm going to suck it up and do whatever he fucking tells me to do until Elodea is safe. If you care about Chorus, about anything we're fighting for, you'll do the same."_

_"Oh, you'll listen to that motherfucker? Never pegged you for a bitch, Will."_

_"The asset gave us orders to patrol this area, and he knows how to handle a threat way better than the Commander does. So yes, I'm going to listen to him."_

"Who's the asset?" Wash whispers.

_With so little information, I can't even begin to guess._

The pair sinks into angry silence and keeps walking, Wash following close behind. It's eerie to be near those two again. The more he sees them, the more memories of them surface. They even walk the same—tiny Murphy, stomping like he owns the world, and Jin gliding across the snow as easily as if he were skating. They were inseparable, no matter how hard someone tried to pry them apart. Apparently, they still are.

It almost feels invasive, to listen to this. This is their conversation. He's about to switch away from their channel when Murphy speaks up again.

_"I fucking hate you."_

Wash can almost hear the smile in Jin's voice. _"Thrilling conversation as always, Sun."_

_"Seriously, Will, you're just such a disease."_

_"Then why do you always stick around?"_

_"...Wow. Good question. Hey, why DO I always wind up with you?"_

_"I don't know, because you're annoying like that? Stop distracting me, we're still out in the open."_

_"Oh, trust me, I've got better ways of distracting you."_

Jin chuckles warmly. _"I'm sure you'll show me later."_

_"How about I show you now—"_

_"For all you know, the asset has other people surveying this area. You really think now's the right time for your terrible flirting?"_

The guilty party coughs, in a way that even Wash can tell is a painful attempt to hide embarrassment. _"R-right. My bad. Guess distractions can wait."_

Murphy pauses for a second.

_"Uh...hey, Jin?"_

_"Yeah, Murphy?"_

_"...He didn't tell us who, or...what we're protecting the base from, did he?"_

_"No. He didn't. He just said to—"_

Jin and Murphy disappear off the face of the planet.

Wash blinks a couple times, thinking it's a trick of the light, glare off the snow. But when he opens his eyes, he's alone. The lieutenants are gone. 

Alarms blare in Wash's head as he tries to process what's just happened. They're _gone_. As in, there's nothing. No sensor readings. No heat signatures. No voices. Even their footsteps just stop in the middle of the snow.

"Sigma," Wash breathes, as if speaking too loudly might cause some _other_ impossible thing to happen. "Please tell me you know what the fuck just happened."

_I...I'm not sure. Omega?_

_No fucking clue. I lost their signal._

_We should investigate. Keep your camo active._

"Way ahead of you." Any other time, Wash would marvel at how speechless Sigma is—but seeing two people disappear into thin air tends to take the humor out of you. Instead of mocking the AI, Wash switches his gun out for one of the knives and inches forward, instinctively sinking into a battle stance.

He stops a few feet behind where Jin's footprints ended and crouches down even lower. The frontmost footprint isn't even all there—it cuts off halfway through the boot mark. Likewise, Murphy's last one ends just before the toes.

_Omega, try scanning again._

_I am, I'm running a third fucking scan on the place, but there's literally nothing! It's the same as the rest of this bumblefuck forest!_

_Maybe you should try harder?_

_Maybe YOU should fucking do something for once!_

Omega's outburst sends a particularly sharp headache through Wash's head and he groans in frustration. "Maybe you two should be quiet," Wash mumbles, before returning his attention to the footprints.

_I don't understand where they could've gone. There is nothing here that could adequately conceal them._

The beginnings of an idea start to form. "Well...maybe we're just not seeing it."

_What do you mean?_

After a brief moment of apprehension, Wash lifts the knife and reaches out past where the footprints end. 

Every part of the blade past the footprints disappears, the same way the lieutenants did. 

Wash releases a short breath and lets the blade fall forward out of his hand. It disappears entirely, not even leaving behind so much as a sound.

Sigma practically glows with curiosity. _Incredible! A cloaking field that we couldn't detect. Excellent deduction, Wash. Omega, try the scan again, but see if you can calibrate it for camouflage engines._

_It's not getting picked up. No matter how I scan for it, the damn thing just doesn't show up._

_Well, that's not of consequence, we already know it's there. This is the gateway to Elodea, and we need to go in._

"Wait, hold on. We don't know what's over there," Wash argues. "It could be unsafe—"

_We know that the lieutenants went through without even stopping in their conversation. That's all the evidence I need of its safety—_

"Just hold on, okay? There has to be some other way to see what's on the other side." Wash flexes his fingers distractedly for a moment before an idea comes to mind. "Does this armor have a datapad?"

_Back storage compartment. Why?_

Wash retrieves the datapad and, after a brief moment of preemptive regret, unclamps his helmet and pulls it off one-handed. The chill hits hard, but he powers through and starts playing with the functions on the pad. "I think I can connect the pad to display the helmet's HUD separately, but I'm not exactly—"

_I get it. Let me,_ Omega grumbles.

The AI disappears into the pad without waiting for an answer. Almost instantly, the pad's screen goes from a blank menu to a standard HUD view of the dead grass and snow at his feet. Wash lifts the helmet and the scene on the pad changes, to a screen of snow falling between trees.

_That good?_

"Yeah, this should work. Hopefully."

Wash takes the helmet and slides it partly through the field—but to his dismay, it doesn't immediately work. The pad picks up nothing but static until Wash adjusts the helmet so that the signal receiver is on his side of the barrier, and the actual HUD sensors are on the other side. Once he does, there's a flash of white for a moment, and then the static fades somewhat, replaced by a barely visible image.

He squints, staring at the screen as shapes slowly start to become apparent. What immediately captures his attention is the monolithic spire that's dead center on the screen. Even through the greys and whites of the snow, the spire's deep green color emits a glow that makes it impossible to miss. 

"Is that—?" The question already seems stupid. It only took him a second to realize that it's not man-made. "That's a temple. _Another_ temple."

_Incredible. We were never told of another alien structure on Chorus._

"But what's it doing _here_?"

_Perhaps it's what's generating this cloaking field. After all, the aliens have proven time and again that their technology is far beyond our understanding. This tower and everything around it is entirely undetectable by our technology. It's the perfect place for General Kimball to hide a base._

Speaking of the base. The image on the pad is a lot clearer now, enough so that Wash is able to make out structures surrounding the temple. They're not that different than Armonia—blocks of blue-grey stone and metal, built up in smooth towers that don't come anywhere near the top of the temple. He can just barely see smoke rising up from one of the towers, but it's hard to tell through all the snow.

_Do you see the lieutenants?_

Wash angles the helmet down to ground level and sees two pairs of boots, slowly trekking away in the snow. There are some more buildings around them, nowhere near as tall as the ones closer to the spire, but the static on the screen is worse now and he can't really see much. He can just barely make out a snow-covered path, devoid of trees and nearly deserted, leading up to the rest of the buildings. He can't tell how far it goes.

"They made it through fine."

_Still having doubts about your safety?_

Wash rolls his eyes and pulls the helmet back to his side of the barrier, watching as Elodea disappears from the screen. He puts it back on and reengages both the camouflage and the heat.

_The sooner you start the mission, the sooner you finish it, and your mission begins on the other side of that barrier. Simple as that._

Wash stands silently and takes another knife in hand. Elodea is mere inches ahead of him, and yet he can't see a thing. Having a visual doesn't change the fact that he doesn't know what's inside the base itself. Within Elodea could be an entire army, waiting for him. He hopes so.

_Go._

He tentatively reaches out and slides his hand through the barrier, watching in discomfort as it disappears from sight. He can still feel everything, but it's disturbing to not see part of himself while knowing it's still there.

_Go!_

Wash takes a deep breath, hopes for the best, and steps the rest of the way through the barrier. He emerges unharmed on the other side, relieved when he sees the lieutenants only a short ways ahead of him.

He takes one more step and

 

**_YOU ARE NOT WORTHY_ **

 

As if someone has yanked on some cosmic chain, Omega is violently torn from Wash's mind before Wash can process the new voice within his head. Shocked, he gasps for air and almost regains his footing—but it's only an instant before something else is broken in his mind and suddenly Sigma is shrieking.

The knife clatters from his hands and Wash collapses instantly, Sigma's pain melting seamlessly into his own as he grabs at his helmet and screams. Sigma's panic is stronger than anything Eta had forced upon Wash, only now it's a million times worse because Sigma is not just _terrified,_ Sigma is _desperate_ and cornered and isn't holding anything back. Any semblance of calm dies in Wash's throat as Sigma continues to shriek, inundating every corner of his mind with agony and raw sensory data magnified a million times.

The other voice booms through his head, thunder against all this lightning.

 

**_ONLY THE WORTHY MAY ENTER_ **

**_YOUR MIND HARBORS THOSE WHO ARE NOT_ **

**_REMOVE THEM_ **

 

" _I can't_ ," he manages between gasps. What is this, _what is this?!_ He can't think, can't breathe. His hands fly up to his face as he just barely suppresses another scream, and even though every instinct tells him he shouldn't, he rips his helmet off and throws it to the side, desperate for air and escape.

The same force rips at Sigma, trying to tear him away the same way it took Omega, but something doesn't work and Sigma somehow keeps his death grip around Wash's thoughts. Like a noose.

_I will NOT be taken!_

 

**_THIS ONE IS PERSISTENT_ **

**_IT IS FIGHTING ME_ **

**_TELL IT TO CEASE THIS RESISTANCE_ **

 

"Sigma, _stop_ , _STOP!"_ Wash yells. Something burns at the nape of his neck—the implants. Sigma is going to rip his brain into pieces.

_I CAN'T!_ Sigma screams back, desperate, every word a dagger. _I can't, it's trying to remove me, if it does, I'll be all alone, I can't be alone!_

"You _won't_ be alone, okay?!" he stammers. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he just has to find a way to get Sigma to stop hurting him, to stop resisting whatever is causing this. "Just stop fighting so hard, I-I can't handle you _and_ that, that _thing_ all at once _—"_

_I-it took Omega! I can't sense him anywhere, he's gone, what's happening, I don't understand!?_

The voice thunders again, sending Sigma into another panic.

 

**_IT IS TOO DEEPLY ENTRENCHED WITHIN YOUR MIND_ **

**_IF YOU CANNOT REMOVE IT THEN I MUST ISOLATE IT WITHIN YOU_ **

**_I CANNOT ALLOW ANY SIGNAL TO LEAVE_ **

 

Wash pales. "No. No, don't _KEEP_ him here with me, I don't wa—"

He stops sharply as something forces its way into his mind, wraps itself around Sigma, and decisively rips him loose of Wash's implants with a single pull. It takes every ounce of willpower in Wash's body just to stay conscious as he feels Sigma flash for a moment, dully, then brightly with all the fervor of a supernova, only to suddenly turn to darkness.

There's a bloodcurdling scream from Sigma, followed immediately by silence.

"...Sigma? Sigma, are you there?!" Wash shouts.

No reply.

_"Sigma!"_ he repeats more urgently. "Are you still—"

_I'm here, Wash, I'm here, I'm not alone, we're not alone!_

Sigma sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

_I... Something's wrong._

Wash can barely believe that what he's feeling is Sigma. Sigma sounds hollow. Bitter.

_I am no longer receiving a signal from Control._

"What..." Wash tries again when he realizes that he's still breathing funny. "What do you mean? What happened?"

_Something has completely isolated me within the implants, so successfully that I can't even access your armor controls. I am stuck. Omega is gone, I don't know if he survived. I cannot make contact with the ship or Control. It is just you and me._

A small bit of rationality bleeds back into his voice.

_You're in shock. You need to calm down, breathe. Figure out where we are._

Wash nods, still struggling to take in an even breath. His entire body shakes with adrenaline. It's sickening. He can't get over the invasive feeling of whatever that was, probing around in his mind and tearing Omega and Sigma loose.

...Wait. _Tearing loose._ Wash feels frantically through his mind and notices a distinct change—no Omega, _anywhere._ Not even a trace of him. He finds Sigma still there, but the fragment is harder to reach, like he's not quite within Wash's mind and not quite within the implants.

The realization hits him almost immediately. Sigma and Wash are completely isolated from Charon. With no Omega and no way to reach Lochley, Sigma can't send or receive any signals.

That's the closest thing to free that Wash has been in a while.

_Helmet._ Sigma's thoughts are fragile, tentative. Confused. _You're not safe. Get your helmet._

But Sigma's not getting orders right now. So what do his orders really matter anymore?

A laugh escapes his lips, long, and slow and defiant. Free. It's such a weird thing to feel, after all of this. It feels _amazing_. He can do anything. He can derail Lochley's entire plan. He can go home, wherever that is. He's free.

Sigma's voice becomes more hostile by the second. _Wash, I am giving you an order. Get your helmet—_

"Or. _Or,_ here's a great idea," he says, almost giddy. "Fuck it."

_...Excuse me?_

"I could just ignore you, hand myself over to this 'asset' and let Grey take care of the rest."

_You wouldn't dare disobey me._

"Why not?!" Wash spits back. "What are _you_ going to do to me? You can't even send a signal out. By the time you can radio Lochley for help, I'll be in handcuffs and halfway to the communications temple."

_Minor complications! Do not forget why we are here, Agent Washington. We have a mission—_

"No, _you_ have a mission. I have a chance to get you out of my head, and I'm taking it."

_Wash, do NOT do something that you'll regret._

It's no use. Wash is already trying to figure out a plan to get captured and get this all over with before it begins.

He starts to push himself upright when a volley of plasma bullets peppers the ground mere inches from his feet, dissolving the snow instantaneously.

"Don't you _fucking move_ ," Murphy snaps.

Even better. He was planning to find someone within the base, but apparently his struggle has already caught the lieutenant's attention.

_What are you DOING?!_

Wash ignores Sigma's rage and Murphy's order, raises his hands above his head and lowers himself back to his knees.

Sigma bursts forward immediately, but Wash is ready this time—and though it's difficult to keep Sigma from taking control, for the moment, Wash is able to keep him at bay. He wasn't able to fight him before.

"H- _HEY_! I just told you not to move! The hell do you think you're doing?!"

"I'm surrendering." He looks up, making sure Murphy's staring directly at him. Jin is nowhere to be seen—which is a shame, Jin always seemed to like him more. "Lieutenant Murphy. Do you remember me?"

_Do not fight me._

Wash winces as Sigma pushes him harder, but forces himself not to look away from the lieutenant. He can't see Murphy's expression under the visor, but he can almost hear Murphy's brain trying to put the pieces together. Murphy has to remember him. Wash trained Murphy and Jin almost as intensely as he trained Tucker, there's no way Murphy can forget.

Finally it clicks.

Murphy lowers the gun maybe half an inch. "...Holy fuck. No, that's not fucking true, they told us you were—"

"A point that's been discussed to death," Wash interrupts weakly. "Look, lieutenant, I need—"

"No, it clearly _hasn't_ been discussed at all, seeing as I'm still confused as fuck! If you're _really_ Agent Washington, why did the base defenses attack you?"

"The base defe—"

"The AI! The fucking creepy-ass voice that makes sure everyone who gets into Elodea is supposed to be here, is this not ringing a bell for you?! Jin, you _need_ to get your ass over here, I have no fucking clue what's going on!"

That's what it was. An AI, trying to protect Elodea, like the ones at the other temples. It didn't want Omega or Sigma to mess anything up, so it tried to delete them.

Murphy raises his gun back up, this time keeping it trained firmly between Wash's eyes. "That thing is fucking _foolproof,_ and I've never heard someone scream that loud after the AI caught them. So I don't believe you, easy as that."

_Wash, this won't work. I will break through._

"I'm not asking you to believe me, lieutenant," Wash says, strained. "I'm asking you to arrest me and tell whoever Kimball sent to handle me that I'm here. You can ask Kimball or Carolina if you don't believe me."

The lieutenant gulps. "You— _you're_ the one they sent the asset to get? Fuck, this is getting ridiculous, I-I don't believe this bullshit—"

"I won't put up a fight, I promise, just tell them I'm here—"

"JIN!" Murphy yells, bordering on a screech. "Jin, you wanna fucking help me out here?!"

Jin comes thundering around a corner to stop at Murphy's side, his own gun raised. It takes Wash a moment to realize the inaccuracy of his helmet/pad surveillance technique—somehow he'd failed to notice the magnitude of the sprawling city surrounding the temple. He'd apparently crossed through the barrier to emerge in some sort of alleyway, with deserted, decrepit buildings blocking any sort of escape on both sides. Wash glances behind him and sees a brick wall where forests and snow had been only minutes before.

"I'm here, Murphy, what's..." Jin falters when he seems to take in who exactly he's pointing his gun at. Unlike with Murphy, the realization is instantaneous. "Agent Washington."

Wash shifts his gaze to Jin. "Lieutenant."

"Captain, actually," Jin says, devoid of color. His gun, like Murphy's, stays firmly in place. "I got a promotion a few weeks back. All thanks to your training, I guess."

"I'm proud of you," Wash replies, surprising himself. He _is_. He's proud of these two cadets for making it this far, with or without his help. "Both of you. I wish I was seeing you again under better circumstances."

Murphy says nothing, which from him is high praise—but Jin sounds unconvinced. "I'll keep that in mind. Did anyone follow you here?" Jin asks.

"Not that I know of."

"Were you tracked?"

"Yes."

Murphy swears quietly. 

Jin is silent for a moment, and Wash can tell that he's also having trouble believing that Wash is actually alive. Just as much as Murphy is, if not more. Wash can't really blame him—even for him, "alive" is starting to feel sort of subjective. Wash can barely even believe that he's made it this far.

"Your biocoms are terrible," Jin says suddenly. "Have you...have you been with Charon all this time?"

_Tell them anything and you'll be making a grave mistake._

_You'll regret it._

Despite the pang of fear that surfaces alongside Eta's hardcode, Wash somehow manages to get the words out. "I...was unconscious until a few days ago. As far as I know, I've been on the Staff of Charon since the day I was captured. An old friend helped me get out, but..."

"It didn't go well," Jin completes.

Wash shakes his head.

"Are they dead?"

"She's unconscious. Badly injured. I...I had to leave her in the ship, she wouldn't have made it through the storm."

"I can send a team to go get her. Do you have the coordinates of your ship?"

"No, but it's pretty close-by." Wash does his best to hide his immense relief, failing miserably. He's glad that Jin, at least, trusts him enough to go and help Niner. "Our Pelican is just a short walk south of here, maybe a few kilometers. She'll need a medic."

_"You_ need a medic. I'm not kidding, sir, your vitals are so erratic that it's a miracle you haven't started foaming at the mouth yet."

It feels wrong, being called "sir" right now, but mainly to save time Wash doesn't protest.

"Medics _later_ ," Murphy fumes. "I wanna know what he did that tripped the alarms."

"Murphy, if he had something to hide, he'd tell us."

"Bull _shit_ , dude! You weren't here when he was asking me to arrest him, saying he was surrendering, talking to himself, all that suspicious shit. You weren't here when he was screaming his head off!"

Wash grimaces at Murphy's bluntness—but at the same time, he does have to agree with him. "Jin, he's not wrong. Charon messed around with a lot of experimental technology in my implants. They've made me do things I'm not..." He shakes his head, trying again. "Right now, it's not safe to be around me. I don't want to be vague, but for the sake of not wasting time, that's all I should say."

"Oh, well, that makes everything better," Murphy leers, voice practically dripping sarcasm. "You're just _'not safe to be around'_. And yet, Kimball and Carolina and the others send the fucking _asset,_ of all people, to get you, like a fucking escort mission. So here's my question. How bad did Charon fuck you up to warrant all that?"

"MURPHY!" Jin whirls on him furiously. "Have a little _decency_ , Sun, Jesus Christ—"

"Look, Jin, something isn't right," Murphy snaps. "I don't care if he's Mother-fucking-Teresa, _he_ _still_ _tripped the security system_. If he's really who he says he is—"

"It's definitely him. We were warned that someone would try to break into the base today. And judging by the fact that _he_ was the one Kimball sent, I bet Kimball already knew it would be Agent Washington."

"But he was _talking_ to someone! I don't know who, but—"

"Murphy, use your fucking head for a second! He was captured by Hargrove more than..." Jin coughs awkwardly and looks back to Wash, lowering his weapon entirely. "Er. No offense, sir, but...I wouldn't be entirely surprised if your sanity were compromised."

_Wash, this is your final warning. Kill them and resume the mission._

Wash closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and pushing Sigma's threat as far away as possible. It's harder this time. He just has to hold out a little longer. "No, it's...it's okay, Jin. You're, uh, not far off." 

Opening his eyes, he glances at Murphy, who still looks like any movement on Wash's part might cause him to pull the trigger. "Look, I'm the one who warned Kimball about the intruder. Whoever Kimball sent to handle it, they know I'm here. Murphy, I know I sound suspicious right now, but I'm _telling_ you, I'm not trying to—"

He stops short as Sigma rips control from him, cutting off his words and immediately pressing him to reach for his gun. But Sigma doesn't take full control in time—and Wash summons every defiant instinct in his body and somehow manages to drive his hand down instead, pushing his fingers deep into the snow until they scrape asphalt.

Both soldiers are instantly alert, Jin even raising a light shield as protection. "What the hell is going on?"

A searing pain burns through Wash's implants and he gasps, but he still refuses to grab any of his weapons and tries as hard as he possibly can to keep Sigma from reaching his gun.

_ENOUGH OF YOUR RIDICULOUS RESISTANCE! When you fight, you only hurt us both. I have come too far, gotten too close to achieving perfection, and I will NOT let you destroy me!_

Oh, no. He's not going to make it this time, he's slipping further every second. Wash has hit his limit of fighting Sigma's pressure.

His hands starts to drag back, gauntlets screeching across the ground, and Wash forces his terror aside and fights. It takes every ounce of concentration in his body to force his arms forward and away from the rifle strapped to his armor.

" _Weapons_ ," Wash forces out, even as Sigma's grip grows stronger with every moment. "My—take my weapons, _now!"_

The Feds share a glance and Murphy storms forward, gun still raised as Wash desperately tries to keep his hands from reaching back. Murphy kneels down in front of Wash and, after a hesitant moment, shifts the weapon aside to reach for Wash's knives—

And just like that, Wash makes the mistake of pushing forward too hard.

Sigma switches directions so suddenly that Wash's own momentum shoots his hands forward, where they lock around Murphy's neck and twist.

Then there's silence.

Murphy slips from Wash's grip as fluidly as if his strings have been cut, his body falling to the snow with a lifeless thud.

Wash hangs there, his hands still frozen in midair before him. His lips move to form words but nothing comes out, he doesn't know what to say, what to do.

_"NO!"_ Jin screams, a sound that tears at every piece of Wash's soul that still remains.

The world distorts. Time moves too fast, everything's over too suddenly. All Wash can think of is that Murphy was so, _so_ right not to trust him—but no way to say it comes to mind.

Instead there is only Sigma, ruthless and overbearing.

_If you won't follow our orders, I'll do this myself._

Sigma reaches for Wash's rifle—but this time, there's no resisting. Wash caves and brings the gun around on Jin, unable to do anything else. The bullets bounce harmlessly off Jin's light shield, but Sigma keeps firing regardless, seething with bloodlust.

Jin's visor remains locked on Murphy's corpse, his own body almost as still. Wash tries to yell at Jin to run, to do something, but Sigma has already taken too much control away from him and all Wash can do is pull the trigger.

The empty click of a cartridge makes Sigma flash in frustration and toss the rifle aside, almost immediately switching it out for the pistol. But this time, Sigma keeps Wash's finger off the trigger.

_...These weapons are nothing against his shield,_ Sigma growls after a moment. _Make him leave before I come up with some other way to kill him._

Sigma returns partial control to him and Wash takes a staggering breath, trying to stop himself from shaking and failing. "Jin," Wash stammers. His own voice sounds so small, fragile. He starts again, just barely audible. "Jin, I-I can't control this, you have to go."

Jin doesn't respond, just shifts his gaze to Wash. Wash can see him trembling from here. He's still just a kid—a _kid,_ barely in his twenties—and Wash just killed his best friend right in front of him.

Sigma glows with impatience and Wash tries again, more desperately. "Jin— _Will. Please_ , I don't want to hurt you too."

Jin exhales forcefully, and Wash doesn't miss the way Jin turns back to Murphy's corpse and stares. A light sprinkling of snow is already starting to cover the body.

Jin looks back to Wash, his helmet unreadable.

"Agent Washington," he says, an audible tremor in his voice. "Rescuing you had better be worth this."

Nothing could ever be worth this. Jin has to know that, _has_ to understand that Wash didn't want to kill Murphy.

_Don't say anything._

But Wash doesn't know how to tell him.

Captain Jin takes a few steps back, slowly at first, then faster—and with one last lingering look at Murphy, Jin deactivates his shield and sprints back the way he came from, half of a pair.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked Murphy. Why do I do this to me? Why do I do this to you?? I don't even know
> 
> So here's the deal. I'm gonna finish this arc by June 2nd and then take a month (yes a month) of hiatus because I am getting a kinda biggish surgery that day (hearing aid! two ears!! directional sound!!!) Also, it may not seem like it but it takes me a long time to write these chapters, so the month will help me get a decent buffer in place.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your kind comments AND your recs on rec day! Aw man that made me so happy to know that people actually enjoy my one-way tickets on the angst train.
> 
> See you next week! With more angst, and some familiar faces, because y'all deserve something. And just warning you—the next two weeks of chapters are...different.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the Angst and Fluff wars at the end!

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

…

Wash would be lying if he said that he'd never wanted to die before.

The thoughts had started early on, elementary school, around the time his dad left for some military job and never came back. While it had been good riddance, it had also left Wash the middle child between two sisters and the only man in his family. Neglect, reputation and school troubles had left him contemplating a world without him in it—that is, until he snapped, and every bit of abuse he'd endured quickly turned into fuel for a long-burning fire. From then on, everything always seemed like payback. He wasn't the one who was going to suffer this time around.

He'd made it all the way through his short UNSC career without thinking about it again. In fact, he'd refused to even entertain dying. Subordinates, officers, everyone called him a cockroach, but he never cared. People depended on him, and he'd be damned before he left his soldiers without a leader.

But then he went too far. And when he took the protection of his comrades to the extreme, he ended up in Freelancer. Everything went downhill from there. Nobody really depended on him anymore. Whatever purpose he'd found in the war was wiped clean. And slowly, those little thoughts started to sneak back in, and the nagging idea started to resurface—the idea of _"what would be different if I wasn't here?"_

It started being a question of pragmatics— _if I wasn't here, York would be picking this lock instead. He'd be better at it. If I wasn't here, Carolina wouldn't be wasting time protecting me. If I wasn't here, Connie would be happier. South wouldn't be angry right now. This would be different, that would be better, I wouldn't be in the way._ And while he never acted on the logic behind the thoughts, they always lingered.

Then along came Epsilon, and Wash acted. When Epsilon tried to kill himself, Wash tried to do the same, certain that it was the only option left.

It didn't work. Of _course_ it didn't work. If it had worked, Wash wouldn't be here right now, wishing it had.

On the outside of Wash's mind, Sigma chuckles, the sound ringing in his skull, inescapable.

_Suicide. You're contemplating suicide._

Sigma drives Wash to his feet and Wash obeys. There's no resistance on his end, no defiance, as Wash carefully steps over Murphy's corpse and retrieves the lieutenant's rifle. After a moment, he reaches for the ammo mag-clamped to Murphy's hip and attaches it to his own armor.

_That's awfully weak of you, Agent Washington. You—we—are so much stronger than that._

That's a lie. If Wash were stronger, Sigma wouldn't be controlling his every move. Wash would find some way to fight what's happening to him. But he _is_ weak. He's weak and he doesn't know what to do about it.

So Wash doesn't fight. As Sigma presses him onward, Wash remains silent and picks his helmet up from the snow, brushing it off before slotting it back into place. He doesn't need to force himself to look away from Murphy—Sigma won't let him anyway. Instead Sigma directs his attention to his HUD, surveying the area in front of him. His trackers show motion further down this street, closer to the base itself.

_Besides, you must know that nothing you could attempt would work. I would stop you the second you tried._

That does nothing to change his mind.

_Goodness, you're exhausting._ Sigma hums quietly. _Let's give cooperation another try. Don't give me a reason to repeat my previous actions._

Sigma releases him and Wash drags in a shuddering breath, panic immediately taking over. He looks to Murphy before he can stop himself, despite Sigma's swell of disapproval, and before he can look away he's memorized every detail—everything, burned into his thoughts for all eternity.

Something swells up within him, a burning feeling that just explodes without warning. A frustrated shout escapes him, swallowed by the wind. Nobody hears him.

_Wash._

Wash scrunches his eyes shut, trying and failing to drown Sigma out.

_Listen to me, Wash._

"No," he gasps. "No, I'm _done,_ I-I don't want to do this anymore."

_That is not your choice to make. You are a soldier following my orders. Nothing more._

Wash opens his eyes but can't drag himself away from Murphy. He did this. He wasn't strong enough, he couldn't save his cadet. What kind of soldier can't protect his cadets?

_Wash, we have a mission to complete. Regardless of this...setback, we must push on. Remember, I made you a deal—follow my orders and stay out of sight, and I won't make you kill anyone other than the commander. Your disloyalty caused Murphy's death. This is how you protect everyone else._

He shakes his head, shuddering. "I don't want to be your weapon."

_We have a deal, Wash. Either be a weapon or be a murderer. Your choice._

Wash struggles for air. That's a lie too. It's not his choice. Everything, _everything_ since the moment he woke up has been decided for him. He's been taken advantage of since the second they put those AI back in his head.

He thinks about the brutal way Sigma had executed Murphy, how easily he had forced Wash to give in. There's no choice, none at all. If he wants to protect everyone from that fate, this is the only way. He can't just keep fighting Sigma and putting other people in harm's way. He has to stop anything like this from happening to anyone else.

He has to kill the commander.

_Good choice._

He tries to reason with himself. It's just one person. Better one than all of them.

_I'm so glad you're finally seeing reason._

He forces himself to get his wits together. Forces his conscience into submission. Tells himself that he's doing the right thing.

Hopes that someone finds a way to stop him.

Wash straightens up and starts down the snowy path towards Elodea's main base.

...

Commander Donut takes a hell of a lot longer than a moment to register the news. It's not the kind of news you can take lightly, after all. The speaker already makes it bad news, but the news itself is impossible to believe.

So he takes another minute to process the idea that Wash is alive, and yet another to process the idea that Wash may have been sent here to kill him.

Donut can almost hear the asset losing patience over the radio, but Donut isn't ready to reply. Fact hasn't yet sorted itself from fantasy. How could the merc be right about this? Wash is dead. He _has_ to be lying.

"I don't believe you," he finally decides, sinking back a little further in his chair. Locus— _the asset,_ he scolds himself quietly—contacted him privately with this, already enough of a red flag. And like with most sensible people, it takes more than a moment to trust the mercenary.

_"Commander, we don't have time to argue,"_ Locus says, though judging from his tone of voice he would rather be fighting than trying to convince Donut.

"Is this why you had to redirect some of my best soldiers to border patrol? Because you thought that Wash was coming?!"

_"I did so with General Kimball's direct—"_

"Why wouldn't Kimball just give me the orders herself?!"

_"Because she's currently busy trying to—"_

"No, you know what? I don't care. He's not alive," Donut snaps. His voice struggles to remain even. "We didn't hear a word from them about him for three months. _No words!_ There's no _way_ that Charon let him live that long."

_"Commander_ —"

"And now you think he's coming to _take me down_?"

_"Yes."_

The bluntness of his answer hits hard and Donut laughs quietly, under his breath in disbelief. When he realizes that he's being met with only silence, the nervous laughter dies out.

Locus starts talking before Donut can interrupt him again. _"The generals made contact with him and a Charon defector less than an hour ago, only to lose contact shortly after. According to the intel they gathered, Agent Washington had been psychologically tortured and experimented on during his three months in captivity."_

Oh no. Donut feels his words stall in his throat, but he forces them out regardless. "He...he was _tortured?"_

_"According to Dr. Grey. When they saw him, he was disoriented, and believed himself to be compromised. Before losing contact, he warned Kimball to protect this base—and shortly after, his Pelican changed course to Elodea's coordinates. They haven't heard from him or the defector since then. It's only logical to deduce that he is the threat he warned her about. The generals sent me to protect the base, which, by extension, includes you."_

Donut takes another minute to process this, even more confused than before. Wash, _alive_. All these months, when they all thought he was dead, he was a prisoner. Tortured. Donut had been one of the last people to give up hope—but he shouldn't have given up at all. They _abandoned_ him with Charon. What kind of friends do that?

Over the radio, Locus growls in exasperation—and Donut again feels the strong urge to cut him off and give him a real piece of his mind. But he can't. He has to work with Locus now, just like everyone else in the Chorus army. Just the idea of it makes him sick.

Still...Donut can't just ignore the fact that Locus is an ally now. He doesn't have a choice but to deal with it. Even after three months, Donut still finds himself thinking about how Locus had been onboard the Staff of Charon that day. That Locus was the one who had deactivated the ship's radio jammer, the reason they'd been able to radio for backup. The fight to get back down to the surface had been almost as bad as pulling out of the ship. Without Locus, they wouldn't have pulled out at all.

Then Locus had proposed a deal. He helps them defeat Charon, and in return, they let him leave without trouble after the fighting is over. They had declined until the last failed rescue attempt, which had cut aerial forces in half. Without Wash and a good number of their pilots, there didn't seem to be an alternative. And he'd agreed to a tolerable compromise—handing over his alien sword-key-whatever as insurance that he wouldn't try to, you know, blowup the planet again.

Now Locus is an ally. Sort of. Which is all well and good, except for the fact that Donut doesn't particularly want to work with a mass murderer for the sake of convenience. Judging from how most people still refuse to even work with the man, Donut figures that nearly everyone agrees with him. For heavens' sake, it took _weeks_ of convincing just to get anyone to stand in the same room with him without weapons.

So now, here they are. Donut trying to be reasonable and tolerate the mercenary-turned-tentative-ally, and Locus, the asset, _whatever_ , trying to get it through his head that Wash might be coming here to kill him.

As horrible as it is to think about, he can believe Wash being alive. But Wash coming here to _kill_ him? That's not right.

"So...if this isn't all just a trick, what should I be doing about it?" Donut finally says, his voice sharper than intended.

_"You should be locking down the temple. Start the procedures, then do it as soon as I arrive."_

Donut gulps. That's extreme, even for Locus. The locking isn't the bad part—but unlocking the base can only be done with an alien key, which means they'd basically be barricaded in, and Tucker would have to risk being noticed on the way over to unlock the base, and then this whole mess would just happen all over again. "And when is that?"

_"Soon. I have to make sure that their Pelican is disabled first—we cannot allow either of them to escape with information about the base. In the meantime, if you see Agent Washington, be extremely cautious. I have far more experience dealing with assassins than you do."_

Locus signs off.

Assassins?

...Oh, joy. If there's anyone Donut wouldn't want as help, it's probably Locus. He gulps, twisting a pencil nervously between his fingers, before finally sitting up straighter and turning to the window beside him. His office, which is basically the repurposed control room of the Temple of Defense, has a perfect view of the factories of Elodea, as well as the torrential snowstorm that never seems to end around here. If he looks up, he can see the slight green shimmers in the sky, where the temple's technology is working nonstop to hide Elodea from Charon's scanners and weapons arrays. Everything seems to be working fine.

He looks down. There are guards making their rounds as usual, as well as technicians going in and out of the main fabrication center to his left. Nothing looks out of place. Nothing worth sealing the base over.

Donut sighs, still unsure of whether to believe Locus or not, and for lack of any other ideas just keeps staring out the window. He's still not used to this view. Ever since his promotion, which had honestly come out of nowhere, Donut has been trying to get used to Elodea. But everything's just so _weird_. Without Wash, everything has felt wrong. Now the gang's all split up, doing different things for different people, all over Chorus, and Donut ended up getting stuck here. Donut's not a _horrible_ soldier, he understands why they chose him to oversee the operations in Elodea. But he misses normal. Everything here is so hush-hush. Nobody smiles when he jokes. Nobody even _jokes—_ and it's hard to keep up a smile when nobody else is. Even the armor he wears here has to be fully camouflaged for safety, so the only lightish-red he gets now is a single stripe on his shoulder pad.

He misses home. Home, wherever it is. Whether it's Blood Gulch, Valhalla, the crash site, the other bases or even back on the farm in Iowa, he misses all of it. He misses his friends.

He misses Wash a lot too. And now, Wash is coming back...maybe?

Despite the warnings Locus gave him, hope starts to bleed through his concern. Maybe, _just_ maybe, everyone is wrong about this. Maybe Wash isn't even alive, and Donut doesn't have to feel like he left his dear friend to suffer for three whole months at the hands of monsters. And even if he is alive, Wash wouldn't be coming to Elodea just to kill him. Maybe it's just Locus and Kimball and Carolina all being a little too paranoid. Maybe Wash is just coming back, maybe he's not coming back at all. Maybe he's—

The door to his office slams open before he can finish the thought. Jin storms up to his desk and practically rips off his own helmet, gasping for air like his lungs aren't working.

"Will!?" Donut pulls off his own helmet and dashes around the table, instinctively grabbing Jin's shoulders and turning him to face him. Jin is shaking, his head in his hands, tears pouring down his cheeks like a faucet that's burst. " _Will!_ Will, what's going on?"

Jin falls forward onto Donut's chest, struggling to speak. "I—I tried, but I couldn't do it, sir, I-I'm so sorry, I—"

"Breathe," Donut urges, and Jin shakes his head desperately. He's practically unrecognizable like this. "Tell me what happened!"

_"Sun,"_ Jin croaks, and a strange look flashes in his eyes and he struggles to push Donut away, but his movements are so disorganized that Donut is easily able to hold on. "Sun, Sun, I have to go back, I left him there, I-I can't _leave_ Sun there with him—"

"WILL!"

Jin freezes, startled. His eyes are red and wide. Terrified.

Donut exhales quietly.

"Now, just slow down, alright? What happened to Sun?"

Jin shakes his head.

"Will—"

"He's dead."

Even as small as Jin's voice is, the two words still stun Donut into silence.

It takes him more than a moment to respond. "Lieutenant Murphy is...he's _dead_?"

Jin nods.

"But who? _Why?_ "

"It—" Jin shudders violently and tries again. "It was Agent Washington."

Donut doesn't quite catch his gasp fast enough. " _Wash_ killed him?!"

"I-I don't know, he was—he looked hurt, I don't think he wanted to."

"Wash isn't even supposed to be _alive_ , Will, are you sure?"

"Positive," Jin stammers, his hands gesturing frantically. "He, he was, uh, confused, talking to himself, fighting himself. He told me to run, he said he couldn't control it—"

"Control what?"

"I don't know, but he, he _killed_ _Sun_ , Sir, I-I—"

"Will, is Agent Washington inside the base?"

This time, when Jin tries to pull himself free of Donut's grip, Donut lets him. "Yeah. H-he made it through the barrier and then Sun said he heard him screaming. I think it did something to him, to whatever Charon did to him. He was trying to fight it, but he couldn't, and..."

Donut crosses his arms nervously, looking out the window once more—except this time, he can't be fooled by the fact that everything looks fine. It can't be fine. Locus was right. Wash is definitely alive, definitely tortured, definitely hurt. Donut knows how much Murphy meant to Jin, _and_ he knows how much Wash respected both cadets during his time with the Feds. The Wash that Donut knows would never do anything to harm them. 

But if Jin is right, then this isn't _his_ Wash. This isn't the friend that Donut knows. And now, if this other Wash, this murderous, monstrous Wash who can't stop himself, is inside Elodea, everything this base has been working towards is in danger.

So the answer is simple. They need their good Wash back.

Donut looks back to Jin, who's calmed down somewhat but still looks like something fundamental within him is shattered. "Will. I need you to do something for me."

"What, sir?"

"Stay here and start up the barrier generator."

Jin pales. "Isn't that a little extreme?"

"No, because you only need to _prepare_ the lockdown. I'll come back to seal the deal. In the meantime, if you hear from Locus _,_ tell him I went to help evacuate the factories."

"But then...where are you going?"

Donut reaches under his desk and pulls out a modified plasma rifle—the same one that Wash had given him aboard the Staff of Charon. He hasn't been in a room without it since that day.

He swallows hard and flicks the safety off.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to save my friend."

...

Wash hears the alarms long before he actually reaches the main base. They blare like someone attached a foghorn to a megaphone, loud and low, a hammer to his skull.

They know he's here. That's one step closer to finding him and stopping him.

Something warms up slightly in his heart before Sigma maliciously stomps it down.

_Ignore it._

Sigma tries to redirect his attention to the task at hand, but he can't. The alarms are too loud, even from this distance, for Sigma to do anything about. Far past uncomfortable, Wash mutes all external sound through his helmet and pushes through, working his way into the central area and finally leaving the path he was following. He emerges onto a wider road that's muddy with snowfall, leading to a few warehouses and a large building with smoke pouring from the top.

A split second later, his motion sensors pick up movement a few yards away—but Sigma takes control before Wash can do anything and practically throws him into an alleyway, just narrowly avoiding being spotted by a jeep rocketing towards the nearest warehouse. Only after it disappears onto another road further away does Sigma finally let Wash peel himself off the alley wall and catch his breath.

_That was too close._

Wash watches with dismay as his motion sensors go dark again. Not close enough. That's the third patrol car he's had to hide from. It's killed him to do it—but every time Wash has tried to delay, Sigma's noticed almost instantly and forced him to get out of sight. The snowfall right now is too heavy to keep his footprints visible, so the only tracks he's leaving behind are quickly disappearing.

To be honest, there are too many different emotions warring in his head right now for Wash to think straight. He's not sure if he wants to be caught, wants to be killed, or wants to follow Sigma's orders to avoid hurting anyone else. Best case, he gets caught before Sigma can do anything, but until then, Wash doesn't know what he can do. For now, all he can do is delay his mission long enough for someone to find him. But what happens _when_ they find him is anyone's guess.

"I thought...I thought being spotted was my choice," Wash mumbles, breathless.

_You're not trying to be spotted, you're trying to get us killed. My taking control won't do anything if you're shot. Focus on the mission. Where would the base leader be?_

Wash immediately looks towards the top of the temple despite himself. It doesn't make sense for the leader of this place to hole up in a bunker somewhere. They'd have to be able to see everything going on—and the monolithic tower is the only thing in sight with a view of the whole base.

_True...but if they know you're here, it's possible that the leader has been relocated._

"Do you know who the base leader is?"

_No worries._

...Huh. That's possibly the most cryptic and least helpful thing any iteration of Sigma has ever said to him. Wash barely has a moment to consider that before Sigma forces him behind cover again. This time it's a squad of five soldiers, sprinting down the road the way Wash had come. He hadn't noticed them coming with the external sound muted.

It takes longer for them to leave this time, and Wash can feel Sigma growing impatient.

_This game of hide-and-seek is becoming ridiculous. Try the camouflage unit again._

"It's not working," Wash grumbles, looking back to his HUD. Every armor enhancement is malfunctioning, for some reason that Wash can't even begin to guess. Maybe because of the barrier? "Same as the last three times you asked me. You can _see_ my HUD, you should know this."

_One of those two warehouses on the left must have something to replace your malfunctioning unit. And turn the volume on again, we can't afford close situations like this._

With a sigh, he turns his external sound back on, lowering it until the alarm's wail becomes a dull drone. Wash checks to make sure the street is clear before crossing to the first warehouse, a smaller stone building that has thick vines of ivy creeping up the sides. He almost walks by them when a random thought comes to mind, and he backpedals for a second to stare at the vines.

"These are dying too," he says, and without hesitation he wraps his hands around one of the vines and effortlessly rips it free of the wall. It crumbles into the snow, damp pieces falling apart at his feet. It's just as bad as the trees outside the barrier, if not worse.

_So we're closer to the source of the radiation. Don’t worry about it for now._

Wash looks over his shoulder at the pillar of smoke coming from one of the larger buildings—from a structure that he can now recognize as a smoke stack. “Maybe it's that place?”

_We have more important things to do. Armor._

Right. Armor. Hopefully, sidetracking himself will make it easier to be found by someone. Besides, the chances of finding armor in the first place he goes to aren't good, which is just more stalling, and overall it's just going to make it easier to get caught.

Wash looks back to the warehouse and sees a door at the front, but Sigma shuts that idea down fast.

_You are not going to get spotted. Find another way._

Fine. After waiting a second to check for patrols, he moves around the side of the building into a narrow alleyway that leads towards the back of the warehouse. 

_Door._

He spots it at about the same time Sigma does—a small, nondescript metal door with a sign that reads, in big red letters—

 

_ARMOR STORAGE FACILITY:_

_AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY_

 

That's... How did Sigma know that?

_Can you get in?_

This doesn't sit right with him. Then again, does any of this? Despite his better judgement, he shakes off the discomfort and reaches for the handle. When he tries to open the door, it doesn't move, and only then does he notice the small keypad lock beside it.

If only that would keep Sigma out. Wash braces himself and rams his shoulder into the door, but the metal is too strong and it doesn't budge. The sirens wail again, surprising him, and he looks over his shoulder—just another building. Nobody's there.

He slams into the door again. Armor integrity monitors flash on his HUD in protest. Save for a lance of pain in his arm, it didn't do anything.

_Again._

Wash steps away from the door, massaging his bicep uncomfortably. That didn't feel good at all. "It's not going to work."

_Try again,_ Sigma insists.

"Just give me a second to thi—"

Sigma takes over jarringly and throws Wash back into the door one more time, hitting it even harder, but the door still doesn't move.

He shouts in pain and stumbles back, watching as a list of injury warnings starts to blare on his visor. A little harder and Sigma would've dislocated his shoulder.

" _Fuck!"_ he snaps, focusing his attention on Sigma's presence within his mind _. "_ Jesus _Christ_ , I told you to give me a second!"

_Try again, Wash. We have to get in._

"Why are you so hellbent on getting into a stupid warehouse, anyway?" Wash spits back. "It's just armor. I can deal with what I have."

Sigma is oddly quiet—to the point where Wash is immediately suspicious.

"...Sigma?"

_Allow me to rephrase. Get us in or be responsible for the dozens of soldiers I will kill if you don't obey me._

Wash is starting to think that this isn't just about finding replacement armor. Despite suddenly feeling like the temperature has just dropped twenty degrees, he speaks up. "Sigma. What are we doing at this place?"

_Get me inside._

Not "us". Just Sigma.

Something sinks in his stomach as it clicks. "You have separate orders from Lochley, don't you?" 

_What about your access codes? Murphy seemed surprised that you triggered the security system, perhaps your codes are still in the database._

"Stop ignoring me. Do you have orders I don't know about?"

_Try your codes on the door._

"Not until you tell me why you _actually_ want—"

A burst of pain drives him to his knees instantly and he gasps in shock as something changes, and the world shifts in a way he immediately recognizes. From on the Pelican. Right before Sigma took full control. 

No. No, no. No control. He's going to lose the little power he has.

_I am trying to do this without injuring you, Wash. Don't make our mission worse than it has to be._

And all of a sudden, Wash's mind is overrun with Sigma's thoughts, plans, ideas. Horrible emotions surface and swirl in his mind, things he can barely put into words. Brutal. Merciless. Cunning. And every one of those feelings directed towards taking down Elodea base.

He can't let Sigma do what he's planning. This is about more than just deposing a leader. Now this is about decimating Elodea—and even though Sigma's vicious thoughts barely explain anything, something about this base is important enough that _everyone_ is scrambling for control over it. There are some things Wash will do to protect the people here, but helping Sigma find this base's secrets and hurt Chorus's chance for victory? That's condemning the whole planet to doom. He won't do that. _Can't_ do that.

_Oh, rest assured, Agent Washington, I'm going to find out exactly what this facility is hiding, with or without your cooperation._

Sigma's thoughts are a rampaging flood, and Wash is merely along for the ride. He fights as hard as he can, tries to push Sigma away, but Sigma is too determined and Wash is just so disoriented and _tired_ and doesn't know how long he...

How long he can...

He...

...

How long he can _what?_

...

Agent Washington is easily the sloppiest assassin that Locus has ever tracked.

Locus almost sighs in disappointment as he effortlessly picks up the tracks left behind by his target. They're small, but fatal errors for most assassins. A dragged foot here, a misstep there. Barely visible handprints in the snow. All rookie mistakes, which Washington has proven multiple times are beneath him. This makes no sense. His track is far too easy to see.

...Unless some part of Washington _wants_ to be found. Unless all those little mistakes are there on purpose to leave behind a working trail.

That casts a new light on things.

Locus steps on the gas and directs his Mongoose against the flow of Washington's footprints, away from Elodea and deeper into the forest where he knows Washington's Pelican is located. Originally, General Kimball had sent him here with the mission of bringing Washington back to the communications temple—but leaving the ship here as a viable means of escape will only complicate the job. He needs to get inside and get whatever Charon intel he can, then disable the ship. Destroy it if he has to, though Kimball's forces could use an extra Pelican.

There's only one set of footprints, but Kimball said there was also a pilot onboard the ship, the defector. They must still be inside, watching the ship. Finding them takes a backseat to retrieving Agent Washington, but it’s a mission priority nonetheless.

His strategy for apprehending Washington is simple. If Grey's quick briefing on the situation is any indication, the AI affecting Washington can't function when he's unconscious. So all Locus needs to do is knock him out. To do that, he'll have to surprise him—easy enough. Getting the upper hand on Agent Washington has never been difficult for him. Though, in such a situation, there is the possibility of significant collateral damage. On his end, Locus will try to avoid fatalities—the main reason for adding his concussive rifle to his arsenal.

The forest begins to thin out around him, and the second it does the Pelican's signature immediately shows up on his HUD. It takes him a second to realize, since he's changed from his usual armor to the standard merc armor and the HUD display is set up differently, but he finds it quickly enough and changes course towards the signal. Interesting. The ship, it's transmitting...something. A unique signal of some kind, but not like a communications signal. Some odd, twisted form of a radio wave.

He moves in closer, following Washington's tracks back to a small clearing where the Pelican sits undisturbed. There's barely even a scratch on it. Clearly there was no struggle in leaving Charon, or even leaving the ship. How did Agent Washington escape so easily?

That question burning at the front of his mind, Locus parks the Mongoose at the edge of the clearing. He approaches the ship and brushes his gauntlet over one of the access panels. It doesn't look like it's been tampered with externally, same as the rest of the ship.

But the second he pulls it open, thick scalding smoke starts to pour from the ports. All the cables inside the panel are glowing an almost surreal red, pulsing at different times and intervals, and emitting a strange hum that Pelican dropships don't usually make.

Slightly unsettled, Locus looks away from the defective panel and checks for a keypad. When he finds it, he enters his old Charon codes—and to his mild surprise, the door doesn't budge. The last time he used them they worked, and that was barely weeks ago. Maybe there's some critical error in the system that's causing the ship to malfunction? It would explain the panel.

He tries his codes a second time. Nothing. He's going to have to use the manual release.

Without warning, the radio signal gets stronger and more erratic, causing a slight buzz in his radio. For the most part, he ignores it. If the signal is still here after he's apprehended Washington, he can investigate, but for now it's not worth the time.

Locus moves away from the defective panel and towards the ramp, pulling up the schematics for the Pelican as he approaches the window. The inside of the ship is pitch black, the lights deactivated. He's about to switch his helmet camera to infrared when the lights inside the ship flash red, settling to a weak crimson glow and finally unveiling the scene inside.

He spots the pilot immediately among the wreckage. The ship may be intact on the outside, but inside there was clearly a struggle. Broken glass and weapons are strewn across the floor, and a large trail of blood leads from the center of the bay to where the pilot is restrained. Scorch marks cover her face and armor, and blood has started to clot on her cheek and the side of her head. From this distance he can't tell if she's alive or dead.

Locus frowns. Seeing the pilot so badly injured only makes it more clear just how dangerous Washington is in this state. According to Dr. Grey, the pilot was one of Washington's old friends—and anything that turns the freelancer Locus remembers against his friends is a force to be reckoned with. He needs to get back to base and complete the mission.

Still...he can't leave the pilot in there. She needs medical attention. 

He moves towards the bottom of the Pelican and finds the release lever at the base of the ramp—but he's barely laid a finger on it when his helmet is suddenly filled with excruciating static.

Locus roars in pain and stumbles back from the ship as everything on his HUD goes a blinding red without any warning, and his helmet speakers are screaming and it's impossible to even think through the noise. He collapses to his knees and rips his helmet off without thinking, but his ears are still ringing and he can barely see straight and the sound is still blaring from his helmet and he can hear someone's screams muffled by the ship.

He picks his helmet off the ground and quickly disables the radio, but the static is still shrieking from inside the Pelican, and the pilot's cries are even clearer.

His head still pounds with pain, but he pushes through it as hard as he can. Think, _think_. The ship can't be doing this on its own. This has to be caused by one of the— _Omega_. The AI that could transfer itself between different machines. Omega must be with the ship instead of with Agent Washington, and it's using that signal to protect the ship.

There's nothing he can do about the ship now—he's not equipped to handle an AI. Retrieving Washington is his main mission. After that's done, maybe he'll be able to get some of the army's tech team out here to handle the ship.

Locus immediately picks up his helmet and moves back to the edge of the clearing, activating the radio again as he does so. The further he moves, the quieter the static gets, until it disappears completely at the edge of the clearing. Omega clearly doesn't want him messing with the ship—and right now, knowing that Agent Washington is in such a dangerous state, he can't afford to waste time trying to break in.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he slots his helmet back into place and radios the control center at Elodea. "This is Locus. Come in, Commander—"

A different voice cuts him off. _"The commander's not here. It's Captain Jin."_

"...Captain." Locus recognizes the designation. He had assigned Captain Jin with another soldier to border patrol. Jin shouldn't be back at the temple. "Why aren't you on patrol?"

_"I had to, there was no—"_

"Stop wasting time and explain yourself," Locus growls.

_"I had to warn the commander. My partner, Murphy, he was killed by—"_

"Agent Washington," Locus completes. Of course. He starts up the Mongoose and slams down the gas pedal, kicking up a cloud of snow as he does a full 180 and rockets back in the direction of the base.

_"So you knew. Good thing I already recalled the rest of the patrols,"_ Jin says, sounding angry. " _You sent us out there knowing it would be him and that none of us were equipped to handle him."_

Locus searches for the diplomatic choice of words. _"_ The situation has...changed. In his current state, Agent Washington is far more dangerous than I was led to believe. If anyone sees him, do not approach and call me immediately."

_"What else did he do?"_

"It looks as though he and his pilot had an altercation—one which left the pilot severely wounded. The ship has a security program protecting it, I was unable to get her out."

_"Wait, he was the one who hurt the pilot? He told us that she was an old friend that got hurt in the escape. That she needed help."_

That can't be right. The AI should be in control, Washington shouldn't even be able to fight them for long enough to warn someone. Locus tries to contain his surprise when he responds. "You...spoke to him?"

_"Murphy first. He was trying to surrender to us before...whatever it is took over. He was fighting it, kept rushing us to do it before he lost control. And his biocoms were crazy, they didn't match what he had in the database."_

So Washington is trying to resist. That would explain why the tracks were so easy to follow. He can't be sure if that's good or bad for this situation. At least it means that Agent Washington hasn't been completely erased by the AI—that may help in avoiding any further casualties. "Where did he go?"

_"We don't know. Just that he's in the base."_

"And where is the commander?"

_"Uh. He, uh, went to help secure the factories."_

If possible, his perpetual frown deepens even more. "Captain, I am not an idiot. I'll ask you again. Where did the commander go?"

Jin is silent on the other end of the radio for a moment.

_"He went after Agent Washington."_

Of course he did.

"Tell him to fall back and wait for me," Locus says through gritted teeth. "Commander Donut is nowhere near capable enough to handle a freelancer, with or without AI involvement."

_"Another AI?"_

"Yes, and if the commander was in danger before—"

_"Hold on,"_ Jin interrupts. _"The base AI found something. Someone broke into one of the warehouses, looks like B. Using—it's Agent Washington. The access codes are his."_

Locus immediately sets a location marker on his HUD and shifts course towards one of the secondary entrances to Elodea. Five minutes away, as opposed to seven. Every minute counts.

_"I have to warn the commander."_

"Captain, tell him he _needs_ to stay away from Agent Washington."

_"He won't listen. He thinks his friend just needs help, he doesn't think Agent Washington would actually hurt him."_

"That's a foolish assumption—"

_"Maybe. Or maybe, if you had warned us that Agent Washington was coming in advance, we could've prepared better. Then Mur—none of this bullshit would be happening."_

Jin signs off before Locus can say anything else. He growls in frustration but doesn't bother calling the base again, instead pressing the gas pedal down until the engine roars and takes him back towards the base even faster. Regardless of whether Washington is fighting the AI successfully or not, it's only a matter of time before he causes damage that can't be undone—and if it comes down to it, they'll need the commander to lock down the base and stop Washington from getting out with information that Charon can use.

For everyone's sake, Commander Donut had better not be doing anything stupid.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just...I'm so conflicted. I love/hate writing Donut and Locus. But I hope you guys liked the chapter! Again, the next chapter will be somewhat like this one in terms of format.
> 
> IMPORTANT: Hey! Tired of me making angst OR want me to make more? Have you heard of the RVB Angst and Fluff Wars? My blogs are @awesomenessagenda and @moriorioh-no on Tumblr, and I'll take any non-NSFW/sex requests for simple one-shots or drawings (I'm better at writing). I'm trying to get bigger in this fandom, creator-wise, and what better way than to do some stuff for all of you?
> 
> See you next week!


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

…

It takes Donut just a little too long to realize that this is stupid. 

It hits him suddenly as the doors to the Temple of Defense slam shut behind him. What is he _doing?_ He doesn't know where Wash is. If Wash is even anywhere near here. He's not even sure what he's going to do when he finds him. Maybe a little heart-to-heart? Maybe a little grenade tossing? Maybe an unintentional battle to the death that ends up definitely killing Donut?

Well...plan or no, he has to start somewhere. He might as well do what he said he would. Donut breaks into a haphazard sprint towards the main fabrication center, directing as many soldiers as he can back towards the temple. The storm has picked up in volume and it's _loud_ , even with the sirens blaring above it, so loud that Donut has to shout to be heard. There are roughly fifty soldiers stationed here, not including lab technicians and factory workers—and the alarms have tipped most of them off to the severity of the situation, which makes it a lot easier to herd them towards the temple. 

Just as one of the first groups disappears into the storm, he receives a call from the control center. Jin's voice sounds devoid of any energy as it crackles into Donut's headset. _"Commander, it's me."_

Donut immediately lowers external sound and focuses on Jin, slowing down somewhat. "You're awful quiet. What's wrong?" Donut asks.

_"I just got off a call with the asset."_

That'll do it. He knows just how uncomfortable being around Locus makes Jin. Back before both sides realized that Felix and Locus were pitting the armies against each other, Jin's older brother had been stationed at one of the bases that Felix had ended up destroying. When he'd found out about Locus's involvement, Jin had been inconsolable. It's been months and he still refuses to call Locus anything but "the asset".

Donut bites his lip and says, "Any progress?"

_"Um...sort of. He couldn't get inside the ship, but the pilot is trapped inside and badly injured. And he says not to get anywhere near Agent Washington."_

"...Will, I'm still going after Wash, whether or not Locus wants me to."

_"I know. And speaking of which. I already told the asset, but the base AI says that someone just broke into one of the warehouses."_

Wash. It has to be. Donut stops in his sprint downhill to catch his breath, looking over his shoulder towards the temple. The snow is thick around him, messing with his visibility, but that one building glows with enough force to pierce the storm. Even in this weather, it still acts as a beacon. "How did he do it?"

_"Using his own access codes. We never removed them from the system."_

Oh. Right. One of the things Kimball had told him to do _weeks_ ago that Donut couldn't bring himself to do. He swallows the guilt and asks, "Which one?"

_"B. The big one."_

Oh no. That's not good, that's where they store all the completed suits. If Wash is compromised, that's probably the worst place he could be. "I'm on my way there. Make sure nobody tries to slip into that warehouse without giving me a heads-up."

_"What about the asset? He's on his way there now, but you'll get there before him."_

"That's probably for the best," Donut mumbles. "He's just on a mission. But he won't _help_ Wash. I will."

_"Good luck, sir. And...just be careful with Agent Washington. He's not the same. Jin out."_

Donut changes direction and heads toward Warehouse B, using his HUD to pull up the security feed from the building. From the angle of the camera he's on right now, he can't see anything out of the ordinary, but there are motion sensors in the back of the building that are unusually active.

He switches cameras to the other end of the building and feels his world stop when he spots Wash.

He knows it's him immediately—the rigid stance is unmistakeable, the protective way he holds his rifle is impossible to forget. The mercenary armor throws him for a loop, until Donut remembers that Wash was trying to escape Charon and probably needed a disguise. But even in enemy armor, Wash still looks like Wash.

Donut crosses one of the main roads and approaches the warehouse's front door, all the while keeping most of his attention on the security feed. Wash is in the main storage room, where the suits ready for deployment are stored, and is slowly walking through one of the aisles. Only he's _really_ taking his time, which is weird—Wash could slow down once in a while, but _never_ this much. But this Wash looks like he's getting lost in a museum, movements dragging where they shouldn't be, gaze lingering on the suit just behind him as he walks past.

He's silent. Wash was never silent before. Almost every time he was alone or in closer company, someone would catch him mumbling to himself. Putting thoughts into words, or keeping himself occupied some way or another. Voicing his thoughts. But there's no sound from him—just the nearly imperceptible sound of his boots scuffling across the floor.

Everything about watching this is haunting. Wash looks like himself, yet he's not acting like himself. Donut understands immediately what Jin said, about how Wash seemed different. This isn't his Wash. Donut can't possibly imagine what's going on in Wash's head right now. 

_Psychologically tortured._

Donut swears quietly to himself and tries to abandon that train of thought. _Focus_. He can't be distracted by guilt if he's going to help Wash...somehow.

Maybe he should've come up with a better plan before storming over here, alone, trying to dominate a freelancer. But it's too late now. He's here. And Wash needs Donut.

Maybe he _should_ wait for Locus.

No. There's no time to wait. Wash needs him now.

Wash is in the back area of the warehouse, which, lucky for Donut, means that he can go in through the front and Wash shouldn't notice. Donut takes a breath and pushes the warehouse door open—but the hinges immediately squeak so loudly that he somehow hears it over the snowstorm. He yelps and scurries inside, pulling the door behind him to keep out the snow and roaring wind.

Inside, there is silence.

Donut gulps and switches his HUD to infrared. The warehouse lights aren't on, and he decides to keep it that way so Wash doesn't realize he's here—after all, his entrance was already cutting it close.

The entry room is still and motionless—nothing but him. He's been in here before, but it still freaks him out to be in any of the warehouses. It's so eerie. This half of the warehouse, at least, is more like a lab than a storage room. The walls are lined with workbenches covered in half-functional computers that send occasional sparks and bursts of light across the room. Three long tables take up most of the space in the room, covered with dust and a lot of decrepit tools. Sitting on one of the tables is a single domed helmet, half the wires from the frame sticking out at weird angles. There's a note scribbled in chalk on the visor that reads:

 

**_M374 MK.4 HELMET_ **

**_FAILED_ **

 

Right. One of the not-so-great prototypes. Donut looks around and sees a similar scene across the rest of the lab. Scattered around the tables are other unfinished pieces of armor, all with different degrees of completeness, but all with the word "failed" written somewhere on them.

One of the workstations along the wall flashes suddenly and he yelps before he can stop himself. He _hates_ this place! It's too spooky for him. But the flash does grab his attention, and after a hesitant moment he moves towards the computer that had caused it. Some sort of stupid update had turned it back on, and now it's just displaying a bunch of schematics for another suit. Laid out around the workstation is the only physical set of armor that isn't in complete disarray—instead, it's neatly organized beside the keyboard with a small note that says:

 

**_M374 MK.7_ **

**_SUCCESS_ **

 

...

He doesn't know how he got there, but Wash is walking in what feels like a nightmare.

 _Meta_. The thought plays in his head, a revelation not quite his. _That's Elodea's purpose. They're mass-producing Meta suits._

He walks down the aisle of the warehouse with a strange disconnect from the world. Dozens of haphazard display cases along the outer walls stare back at him as he passes. In one case, there's a Meta suit, and in the next there's another, then another, and when he thinks that he's done looking at the next one another one shows up in the line, stark white and polished and perfect in every way but not _bloodied and dead like he remembers it—_

A sharp pain in his head forces a gasp out of him and he stumbles, throwing his arm out to the side and catching himself on one of the suits—and he instantly recoils at the touch of the replica and backs up against one of the tables behind him. The gun clatters from his hands and lands just a little too close to the suits for him to go for it.

Something falls from the table and shatters against the floor but he can't be bothered to look, he just stares back at the suit he'd touched.

A sea of blank, lifeless visors stares back at him.

_An arsenal like this would wipe out the reinforcements from the Tiberius and Calypso combined._

An arsenal. Chorus is building the suits to take on Charon. Rapidly, the mysteries of Elodea start to make sense. The building that's been radiating nuclear energy, that's what it's been doing. It's a factory using nuclear power, because the crazy snowstorms here would make solar energy too difficult to use. And the AI that attacked Omega, the barrier around this place—they're protecting Elodea because, if Charon found it, they would destroy the suits, and Chorus wouldn't be able to fight back.

But Wash doesn't care how it's all being used, or why. This _hurts_. He can't explain it, but being in this room hurts him deep down, makes him want to scream and go crazy, and yet he can barely bring himself to move.

Sigma reaches for him, voice soft and comforting, and Wash grabs desperately for the feeling of support Sigma brings with him. He doesn't know why he feels so horrible seeing this armor, but he doesn't want to be alone with the suit any longer.

_You're not alone, Wash. I am right here._

"There's so _many_ ," Wash whispers plaintively, his eyes darting across the wall of Meta suits. This has to be a nightmare, this can't be real.

_Too many. I'd bet anything that these are copied from the original stolen from Charon. I understand how you feel._

Wash isn't sure how he feels about anything. All he knows is that everything hurts.

_Without the UNSC's assistance, they must've been trying to recreate the blueprint from scratch. You should check to see if they have the same armor enhancements—there might be a replacement for your camouflage unit._

"I...I don't want to," he mumbles, feeling even worse as the suit looms over him. Just the idea of touching it again makes his stomach turn.

_...Wash. We are still on a mission. You are still a soldier._

Wash shakes his head nervously, powerless against this horrible feeling welling up in his chest. There are too many memories attached to the suit. Every second he stares at it, a different one surfaces—moments shared in a locker room, moments spent bent over a hospital bed, moments where he can't see it but he _knows_ that that suit of armor will always have his back, moments where blood on white is the only thing he can see. Those memories burn. He doesn't want to get any closer to them than he has to.

_You know..._

Sigma pauses.

_We can get rid of these. We can stop this base from making more of these. You don't have to see this suit of armor ever again._

He looks up sharply, searching for Sigma's voice. "I don't?"

_Of course. Our mission was never just about killing this base's commander. Control had its suspicions about Elodea's purpose. As such, they gave me instructions on what to do if this situation should arise. We can do it together._

A streak of abrasive pain lances through his implants, but Wash is too mesmerized by Sigma's proposal to notice. Sigma thinks they can stop this. Sigma has a plan to get rid of the suit— _all_ the suits. If they're gone, Wash doesn't need to see them again. All these burning memories can go away.

"How?" Wash asks.

_Well, if these suits really are perfect replicas of the enhanced Charon model..._

Sigma projects his idea into Wash's mind, and suddenly Wash sees dozens of instructions and parts and schematics—simple designs for something so obvious, he can't believe he didn't think of it before.

He may be powerless against those memories, but _this_ is something he can do.

_You've assisted your comrades with field repairs before. You know how to make one of these, don't you?_

...

There's a crash in the next room, loud enough that Donut can hear it through the wall. That's the storage room. Wash is in there.

Donut pulls up the security feed immediately and spots him, his back against one of the tables, deathly still as he stares at one of the suits against the wall. The sight is enrapturing—even with the visor obscuring his expression, Wash looks the closest thing to terrified that he's ever seen. But Wash is _never_ scared.

Donut approaches the door that connects the two rooms and peers through the crack underneath it, where he can see two solid gray boots and a discarded rifle, motionless on the floor. He's actually _there_. On the other side of the door is Agent Washington, the man everyone thought was dead. The man responsible for killing Lieutenant Murphy. Their friend.

 _"There's so many,"_ Wash says suddenly, and Donut's heart breaks. His voice is _tormented_. It's as if every emotional wall Wash has ever built up, everything he's ever tried to hide behind, has been brutally torn down without his consent.

Donut has never heard him like this before, but he immediately understands. After Wash's supposed death, Carolina had explained Wash's bad reaction to Tucker in the Meta suit—how Wash and Agent Maine had been best friends, the _bestest_ friends, and having to help the team destroy the Meta had forced Wash to help kill his best friend. And seeing this many suits in one place? Whatever is going on right now in Wash's head is screwing with him, badly.

But the worst part, even worse than thinking about how hurt Wash is, has to be the sound of his voice, because it's so _weak_ , like Wash can barely believe what he's seeing and doesn't know how to explain it. Frankly, Wash sounds like he needs a hug—and Donut desperately wants to give him that hug.

"I..." He doesn't even need the radio anymore to hear Wash. He's already audible through the door, as quiet as he is. Wash is silent for a moment, then tries again. "I don't want to."

Is he talking to someone over the radio?... No, that can't be it. He doesn't have a radio calibrated for the Temple of Defense, he wouldn't be able to transmit or receive anything from outside.

Jin _did_ say that Wash was talking to himself.

"...I don't?"

Those words are even more pained than before, and this time they drive a knife through whatever pieces of Donut's heart are left. Dammit, he can't wait any longer! Another second watching Wash be terrified and hallucinating and talking to invisible people and Donut's gonna go nuts.

He's going to do it. He's going to go in there and...well, he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

But no matter what he does, he's going in there for Wash.

Donut's fingers have just grasped the handle of the door when another radio transmission crackles through his helmet. He recognizes the callsign immediately—Locus.

Oh, no.

After a _very_ hesitant moment, he puts the call through. 

_"Commander. Where are you?"_

Donut gulps. This is possibly the angriest Locus has ever sounded in a conversation with him, which is saying a lot, considering that their few civil conversations have been filled with, at _most_ , mutual frustration. But right now, Locus is _pissed_.

"I'm, uhhh...nowhere important?"

Locus pauses and Donut can just tell that he's positively livid. _"You tracked him down, regardless of my warning."_

"He needs help!" Donut blurts out—then immediately shushes himself and checks to make sure Wash didn't hear. No reaction over the video. When he starts again, his voice is lowered to a harsh whisper. "He needs help and you're the _last_ person who would ever help Wash."

_"Commander, I am only here to retrieve Agent Washington and deliver him to Dr. Grey. My orders are to return him ALIVE, but helping him?  Helping him isn't my job. Tell me, do YOU have a plan to subdue him? Or were you planning to rush in and almost certainly get yourself killed? Were you aware of the consequences of your death?"_

Donut bites his lip.

 _"I thought so."_ For a moment, Locus almost sounds tired, but he pulls it back together real quick. _"Commander, Agent Washington may have been your ally in the past, but right now, it's impossible to know where he stands. He's responsible for the murder of one of your soldiers and the severe injury of one of his former allies. You could be next. I am trying to minimize casualties."_

Yet again, Donut doesn't know what to say. He vaguely hears a loud clanging sound from the other room, but before he can check it out, Locus speaks again, and dealing with him kind of takes all his attention.

_"You're at the warehouse Captain Jin mentioned, correct?"_

"Yeah," Donut mumbles.

_"Do you have a visual confirmation of the target?"_

"Wash is here," he confirms. "He's in the back room, he saw the suits and got kind of...freaky."

_"...'Freaky'."_

"I don't know, he's just not acting like himself?"

_"That's most likely due to the experiments done on him by Charon. I have reason to believe that the Sigma AI is currently in control of Agent  Washington's actions."_

"AI?" Donut whispers. "You mean, he's been given _more_ AI? _Again?_ "

_"Multiple. Which is exactly why he's more dangerous. While Washington is predictable, Sigma is not. What is he doing?"_

Donut directs his attention back to the security feed, where Wash is no longer pinned against the inner table but leaning over something on one of the tabletops. He moved _fast._ In the short span of time he's been more focused on Locus, Wash has gotten to work. There's a small set of tools beside him, complete except for one of the pliers, which Wash is holding in his hand as he works on something that Donut can't quite see.

"He's, uh... I don't know, I can't see what he's making. He's really going at it with those tools, though."

_"He's building something?"_

"I can't think of a better use for tools. Well, I _can_ , but—"

_"We need to know what he's making. A bomb will take out the warehouse and kill both of you—and without your security clearance, Elodea's shield can't be fully engaged and the base is open to assault. Find out without getting caught."_

A bomb? Oh, gosh, that would be bad. But Wash has to be better than that. AI or no AI, Wash wouldn't make a bomb. Right?

But...something's off. He can't shake the feeling that Wash isn't just playing with toys. The more Donut looks over the footage, the weirder the room seems. Donut doesn't know much about the Meta armor's style, but he knows at least enough basics to know that the suits have been tampered with. He _really_ worked fast. Six of the suits, spread out evenly along the room, have open enhancement compartments—and one of them also has a fistful of wires missing from the same place. Wash moves swiftly and silently, using the pliers to mess with whatever it is he's working on that's obscured by his position—

All of a sudden, Wash shifts drastically to reach for a screwdriver, revealing the device he's working on. It's a bundle of wires and parts, not nearly recognizable by any means, but Donut instantly recognizes one of the components. One of the armor enhancements, marked with a single crude symbol of a bolt of lightning.

Like clockwork, Donut understands what the machine is. Ever since his first day in Elodea, he's been shown pictures of one of these, every single time with a warning that says that, _no matter what_ , one of these devices cannot be activated inside the base.

Donut's heart sinks to his stomach. Worse than a bomb. _Much_ worse than a bomb.

"Emp," he breathes without thinking.

_"...A what?"_

Donut watches in a mixture of shock, horror and dismay as Wash goes over to another one of the suits and, after a painful moment of hesitation, removes the EMP unit. "E-M-P. He's building an emp emitter from the suit enhancements."

_"WHAT?!"_

"I just told you!"

When Locus replies this time, there's a distinct sense of urgency in his voice, almost like he's struggling to remain level. _"How many units has he repurposed?"_

"Six—seven now. They're all connected."

_"And how far is the nuclear reactor from you?"_

"Just across the access road, inside the factory."

Locus swears, something that Donut has never heard before but frankly doesn't have time to be mesmerized by. 

_"A combined emitter that strong will knock out the entire base, including the AI."_

The AI. The only thing keeping the base shield operational, could be deleted in an instant. And the second that shield comes down, Charon will be able to detect the energy emissions from lightyears away. That's like broadcasting a beacon with their location to everyone with eyes.

There has to be some way to avert this. Donut starts, "But what about the safety meas—"

_"That's the worst part. The aliens created the temple and the nuclear reactor to be regulated solely by the AI—but if the AI is deleted, the nuclear reactor is set to detonate and destroy the temple under the assumption that hostiles have infiltrated the base."_

The sentence doesn't quite take hold at first, and Donut chuckles dryly, until he realizes that yet again, nobody else is laughing.

"...Wh-what, detonate? As in _explode?"_

_"Ye—"_

"Nobody ever said anything about the reactor _EXPLODING?!_ "

_"They were unaware. We may be able to manually reinstate the shield and contain an explosion if the process begins, but after a short time, the nuclear reactor won't be salvageable if the AI is gone."_

_Won't be salvageable._ That's Locus for _it's fucked._

"Wait, how, how do you know about this?" Donut stammers.

_"I... The alien AI that allowed me to use the sword informed me of the dangers of using the Temple of—"_

"And you didn't tell _anyone?!"_

_"Of course not! No matter what proof or evidence I have, Kimball still sees me as untrustworthy. She wouldn't believe me if I told her the sky was blue."_

Not for the first time today, Donut is stunned into silence. There's a self-destruct sequence—of fucking _course_ there's a self-destruct sequence. This could destroy everything. Activating that emitter will _definitely_ delete the AI protecting this base—and if that happens, Charon finds them, and the reactor sets to blow, and it's goodbye to Elodea and the Temple of Defense. Goodbye, everyone here, all seventy-something people.

Wash can kill them all with the flip of a switch.

 _"You need to stall him,"_ Locus says suddenly.

Donut gulps. "I thought you just told me not to go in there!"

_"That was before we knew he could delete the AI. We no longer have a choice. Stall him, talk Sigma down if you can, and keep his attention away from me so I can line up a shot."_

"...You're going to _shoot_ him?"

_"Concussive. As long as he keeps his armor on, the most it'll do is knock him out. Commander, there is no other option here. Buy me the time I need, and this won't end in disaster."_

"But how are you going to get in?"

_"Is the back entrance barricaded?"_

Donut switches camera angles. "No, it's clear."

_"Then keep his attention away from there for a few minutes. With luck, by the time he notices me, it'll be too late. And I'll remind you one last time—if you are killed and he manages to activate the EMP, there's no way to reinstate the shield. Elodea and all the people here will be obliterated. Use extreme caution."_

Locus signs off, and for what seems like the first time in minutes, Donut  breathes.

Holy shit.

Everything rides on the two of them now.

Donut presses himself against the door and watches Wash on the video feed as he removes one of the units from his machine, tosses it aside, and goes off in search of a new one across the room. His gun is still on the floor, where he'd left it. Donut's got a little bit of time.

Donut radios Jin and gets an almost immediate response. _"Commander, I was wondering where you were. We just finished evacuating the factory, almost every—"_

"Change of plan," Donut interrupts, racking his brain for the best possible escape route. "We're leaving the base. Fit as many people as you can on the jeeps and head for the...uhh, the east entrance."

_"Wait, we're...just leaving? But what about the base—"_

"We might come back, Will, but right now everyone needs to leave. I can't explain now, just get going. I know I can trust you to do this."

_"But—"_

"Stop wasting time and go!" Donut says, bordering on a snap. "And use as much camo as possible when you leave, we don't want Charon finding anyone."

_"I...okay."_

Jin signs off, leaving Donut to do nothing but hope that he can get everyone out safely. Just in case.

Donut turns his attention back to the storage room. Wash is back at the table, replacing the faulty unit, his back to the door Donut is behind. He's gotta do this now.

He lifts his gun up at the ready and presses against the door, trying to figure out what his plan is. _Think,_ Donut. Stall, stall. He needs to get Wash's attention on him. Without Wash killing him. If Wash gets that gun, he can kill Donut. Hell, Wash can probably kill him with anything. The key to _not_ getting killed is surprise.

...Well, there's always a way to surprise someone. And an idea, ridiculous as it is, quickly comes to mind.

Maybe, with just a few seconds, he can come up with something better?

He doesn't have seconds.

Here goes nothing as always.

Donut takes a deep breath, counts to three, and—

...

Wash is so engulfed in his work that he's completely unprepared for someone to kick the door open.

Something BANGS to his left, sharp as gunfire. He jolts at the sound, his hand slipping, and accidentally rakes the screwdriver in his hands across the table hard enough to leave a dent in the metal surface.

Sigma immediately makes him reach back for his rifle—and just a split second too late, they both remember that he'd dropped it.

Wash angles himself towards where the rifle had fallen, but before he can even move towards it, a volley of plasma bullets scorches the ground between him and the weapon and he stops in his tracks.

Save for the smoldering sound of a smoking gun, there's silence.

His mind races. Sigma is furiously trying to find a way out of this, but nothing's coming to either of them.

Wash starts to turn back to look at whoever it is that kicked in the door, but he must move a little too fast because the person speaks.

"That's far enough!"

Something sinks inside him when he hears that voice, because he immediately _without a doubt_ recognizes it. It's painful, how familiar it is. But the memory is muddied. He knows the voice like it belongs to a best friend, but no matter how hard he tries, that's as far as it goes. There's no other connection to make. He can't recognize who it belongs to.

This kind of hurt isn't like the abrasive pain he's felt before. This is different. This is a deep burning chasm in his gut that screams wrong, that something about this whole scene is missing. And that feeling of _wrong_ is the only thing stopping him from lunging for the EMP.

Sigma flashes in his mind with something not quite concern and tries to direct him away from the voice, but Wash doesn't want to be swayed. Something about this familiarity is so comforting, he doesn't want it to go away.

_Familiarity? You're imagining things, Wash. Plenty of people sound similar._

But that's not it. The voice can't be anyone else, it's the voice he remembers and that voice alone, he knows that he's made mistakes before but he _knows_ that this isn't a mistake. He recognizes it. It's close. He remembers it. Something's—

"Put the screwdriver down," the voice says suddenly, and Wash realizes that he's still holding it, squeezing the grip like he's planning to snap it in half.

He moves to place it on the table and the person immediately corrects themselves. "I— _wait_! I mean down like on the floor. _That_ down. Don't want you doing anything else with that thing."

That command sends a little bit of rationality back into his thoughts. He and Sigma are trying to get rid of the suits in this warehouse. He needs the screwdriver. This person doesn't want him to do what he's doing, but Wash has to do it.

_Wash, without your rifle, you're outgunned, and there's no way you can get to a pistol fast enough. Don't give up your only weapon._

Okay. Think, Wash. He and Sigma can get through this. He just has to get rid of this person, this incredibly familiar, unknown person, and he'll be free of the suits.

_We have to find a way to stop this soldier before they deactivate the EMP._

He can do that.

Wash doesn't turn to look at the person yet, but he does slowly raise his hands to eye level, holding the screwdriver between two of his fingers. He can almost feel their eyes scanning over him as he slowly lowers the screwdriver and attaches it to his armor, then immediately raises his hand back up.

"...Uhhh. You're, uh, really not going to listen, huh. That's, uh... _not great,_ but hey, at least my surprise worked! I knew it'd get your attention if I just pounded the door down and I'm babbling again aren't I."

The soldier laughs very, _very_ nervously.

"Ooh, boy, I should _really_ think things through more. I mean, here I am, just _talking,_ and you're not talking, but I can't stop, and I really wish you'd say something, it might make this a little less horrifying? Anything??"

Purely out of curiosity, Wash looks up at the soldier. Nothing visually stands out. Standard grey armor, an old plasma gun, nothing special. The only thing that might distinguish him from any other soldier is the single stripe of color on one of his shoulder pads, a weird lightish-red—

 _Pink._ It's pink. Why did he think that? It's pink.

Who is this person?

_...Hold on. That's not important. Look at his armor closely._

Sigma directs his attention towards the patch of _pink_ and Wash sees what the AI is trying to show him. There's a small painted mark inside the stripe, barely noticeable, but he recognizes it pretty fast. Kimball's armor has a similar mark on it, meant to recognize someone at the top of the chain of command.

_That's the commander._

This soldier is the commander. Wash's target is right in front of him.

_You have your orders._

But...that can't be right. Why does he know his target? Something is so off about this guy, Wash _really_ recognizes his voice, why can't he remember the person? 

Wash can feel Sigma warning him to stay silent, to finish the mission, but the question is too strong and it just kind of slips out before he can catch it. "Who are you?"

The soldier visibly tenses up, his hands pulling his gun closer to his chest. "You...Wash, you don't recognize me?"

 _Wash._ This person knows his name. Something about that gives him that terrible, familiar feeling again, harder than before. 

Wash tries to think of something to say, but he's too confused to make sense of this. There's a missing... _something_ in his memories, he doesn't know what. He knows that he knows this person, but—

The realization comes to him suddenly. He _does_ know this person. But Sigma is blocking him. Sigma, so focused on the mission, is trying to keep Wash from remembering.

Too confused to think about anything else, and too determined for Sigma to stop him, Wash repeats the question, a little louder. “Who _are_ you?”

_Wash, don't._

The soldier looks back at him, confused too and almost—if Wash is reading him right—sad. 

“I…it’s _me!_ It’s Donut—“

He barely hears the name before there’s a burst of screeching pain in his head and suddenly the world is right-side-up again, and for a moment Wash _knows_ who he’s talking to, it’s Donut, _how could he forget Donut_ and then all of a sudden everything is normal and nothing has changed, and Wash is standing here with a stranger.

He stumbles and catches himself on the table, unable to process the memories that have just flashed through his mind. Sigma is almost buzzing now, a warning, not to let that happen again, but Wash can't even figure out _what_ happened.

How does he not remember?

_Wash, your implants. This is hurting you. You need to focus on the mission and ignore him._

But he wants to know. He wants to know so badly it hurts.

He wants to remember more than anything.

...

Wash is staring at him, and frankly Donut doesn't think that's a good thing. He's just staring. He collapsed for a second, then righted himself, and now he's just staring. There's no sound, barely even breathing, and nobody's talking, it's like the only thing to do is stare. Even Donut can't help but stare back.

How can someone sound exactly the same and still so different?

Every note in Wash's voice is the same. Every sound he makes is familiar, every move is identical. And yet, Wash doesn't recognize him, Donut, his _friend._ The words _"who are you"_ have never hit so hard.

Donut's not quite sure at what point during this silence that he realizes that Wash is _trying_ to remember him. It's something to do with how focused he is. Wash is only looking at him, no questions anymore, just looking at Donut in a quiet way that maybe is him trying to figure things out.

But for what it's worth, Donut has his attention, and nobody's blowing up the base, and that's better than nothing. Maybe, with a little more time, he'll break Wash out of this. He just needs to figure out what can get Wash back to normal.

Something happened when Donut said his name to Wash. Maybe, maybe Wash just needs to be reminded of some things.

He turns off his speakers and calls Locus quickly. "I think I know how to keep his attention on me. How long do you need?"

_"One minute."_

Okay. Okay, he can keep Wash's attention on him that long.

Donut gulps and takes a step forward, still keeping his gun pointed vaguely at Wash, and addresses him again. "Wash. I know you remember me."

He almost misses it at first, but Wash flinches when he speaks. _There_. Something about Donut is messing with Wash. He _has_ to remember.

"You remember me," Donut repeats, a little more confidently. "Donut. That's me. Do you know my name?"

Wash flinches again, more noticeably, and his hand grabs a little tighter to the table. "I...I don't _know—_ "

"I'm your friend."

"You're the _commander,"_ Wash spits back suddenly, and when he does he takes a sharp step forward and Donut, unprepared, stumbles back a little. "You're the person in charge of Elodea, and I'm supposed to kill you, but..."

Wash falters, his voice dropping to a dark, frustrated whisper. " _Why_ do I know you?"

"Because we're _friends_ , Wash," Donut pleads. "Sure, you weren't very nice at _first_ , but when you met me _after_ shooting me, everything was fine! And you were nice and badass and helped us get Church back and all that fun stuff!?"

Wash staggers back again, and this time it's like someone has plowed into him, but after a moment, Wash shakes his head, frustrated, confused. "I don't know, I don't know, I-I just...I don't know—"

He hisses in pain suddenly and reaches for the back of his neck, pressing his hand down against it. His implants. They're _hurting_ him, Donut needs to get Wash to Grey as soon as he can, this needs to end fast.

Donut lowers his gun a little bit, well aware that it's a _stupid_ idea but too concerned about Wash to care. "Wash, I know...I know you've been hurt, but I'm your friend and I want to help you! You just need to remember your friends, to get those _things_ out of your head and get back to normal."

 _"...Friends,"_ Wash echoes blankly, and Donut can practically hear his brain working overtime to figure out what's going on. Wash is so confused, he's not remembering enough. "No, no, that can't be right."

"We're here for you, Wash," Donut promises. " _Always_."

Wash's hand slips from his neck and lands at his side, where Donut notices, rather alarmingly, that it's a little too close to the EMP for comfort.

"...Wash," Donut says, as slowly and non-condescendingly as he can. "You can't use that. You _can't_."

"The suits," he replies, and there it is again, he sounds broken, like he did on the videos, wounded and almost dazed. "I can't explain it, but they _hurt_. I just—"

"It's because of the Meta, right? Maine?" When Wash remains deathly silent, Donut continues. "Wash, they're not his. We made them, _need_ them."

"The EMP will destroy them," Wash says, a little firmer this time, as he looks back at Donut. "I don't want to see them again. Then I finish my mission, and I leave, and everything goes back to normal."

...But that's not right. Wash must know how bad this machine is. Locus said a machine that size could destroy the base, but Wash seems like he's only building it to destroy the suits. Does he _not_ know what he's building?

Donut looks at him nervously and chuckles, kinda pathetically. "Uh...the EMP will destroy the whole _base,_ Wash. Not just the suits. Everything."

Wash looks back at him like that's a genuine surprise. Oh, gosh. He really _doesn't_ know what he's doing. That AI, Sigma, is just controlling him, forcing him to do it, and making him think he's doing something else.

"...No, that's...that's not right," Wash murmurs. "It's not that strong."

Donut struggles to keep his voice even. "Wash, detonating that thing makes this place explode. You'd be killing everyone here, _including_ yourself."

Yet again, Wash is stunned silent, and he looks at the machine he was making like he can't quiet process the information Donut is giving him.

Gah, this isn't _working_! Wash isn't snapping out of it. He needs to get Wash to recognize him. What does he do, what does he do? Wash reacted to a name, memories, and Donut reminding him of his friends, but nothing seemed to stick.

...How about a face?

 _You're stupid. Absolutely fucking stupid,_ he tells himself, but he's already lowering his gun and putting a hand on his helmet and popping the seals and before he can think that maybe it's a horrible idea his helmet is already in his hands.

...

The second the commander takes off his helmet, everything seems to slam into place. It's as if the world reconstructs itself, millions of pieces locking into reality and suddenly Wash remembers Donut.

_Hey, uh, Doc? Who's the new guy?_

_Waaaaaaash!_

_What, like a lightish red?_

_I think he shot me...too....._

Wash lets out a strangled gasp and reaches for his implants again because something is burning, actually hot against his skin and physically painful, but it doesn't matter because he _remembers,_ this is his friend, it's Donut, how do you forget _Donut?!_

Sigma is _fuming_ at him, but Wash isn't listening, and every second he sees that face is a fresh reminder of how Sigma is _wrong_ about this, about everything, and he can't use the EMP, that will be a disaster, he can't do it, not when Donut is here, _Donut is actually here, face to face._

"You're here," Wash whispers hoarsely, and Donut looks up at him, staring up at Wash with a growing glow of hope in his eyes.

_You're one of us now, silly._

_I'll cover your rear!_

"You're _here_ ," Wash repeats, louder, echoing the only thought running through his head. "I-I remember, you're here, I remember, I—"

He stops because Donut's mouth splits into a beaming grin and without warning he dashes for Wash and wraps his arms around him like he never wants to let go.

And Wash just stands there, wondering how long it's been since he's seen his friends, since he's felt like this.

Since he's felt _good._

Donut is babbling and crying as he holds him, Wash can barely make out a word but he gets the general gist that Donut missed him a lot, everyone did, they'll all be so happy to hear he's alive and they can get him back to normal, everyone missed him so much, did anyone tell him about the cat named Frecklelancer. Wash missed him too, he misses them all, all he wants is to be with his friends, and maybe even see this cat for himself.

But Sigma is still there, desperately reaching for Wash's attention, and Wash does his best to ignore him but Sigma is screaming for him to listen and not to fall for anything, he's convinced that Wash is making a mistake but this is _Donut_ , how could it be a mistake??

_Wash, he's distracting you!_

Yeah. Donut is distracting him, and Wash doesn't care, because if this is what distraction is like then it's fucking amazing and he wants to be distracted for the rest of his life.

"I'm so glad you're back," Donut sobs, squeezing him even harder.

Back. It seems impossible. He's back on Chorus, they can get him the help Grey promised, they can help Niner, he can see all of his friends again, everything can be okay again. He's _back._

"I'm back," Wash murmurs against Donut's fluffy head of hair. The idea of his ordeal actually being over feels like a foreign concept. How long has it been since he's been anything but miserable? Too long, way too long.

"I can't believe you were with Charon this whole _time_ , Wash." Donut looks up suddenly and squeezes Wash's arms, a weird thing considering they're both wearing armor, but he still relishes the feeling of human contact regardless. "We gotta get you to the docs, I'll let Grey know that we found you. Come on!" 

Okay, that sounds goo—

_We?_

That single word from Sigma is filled with so much concern, so much paranoia, that for just an instant, Wash's focus strays away from Donut and he tunes into his surroundings just enough to faintly hear the sound of a detonator being set.

Sigma takes control of his body immediately and shoves Donut back, then forces Wash to sway violently to the left and practically collide with the table.

Barely an instant later, the door behind him bursts open with the force of an explosion and a gun is fired, and a burst of concussive energy just narrowly misses his head and hits Donut directly in the face and Donut crumples like paper.

Wash jolts towards the door just in time to notice the attacker lower their gun in surprise, then almost immediately lift it up again to recenter aim on Wash.

Even without Sigma pushing him, Wash dives out of the way of the next blast and grabs for his gun, but before he can bring it upright to fire the attacker is already there, kicking it out of his hands.

Wash tries to roll to his feet as they fire again, but this time he's not quite fast enough and the shot just grazes the side of his torso. But suddenly his entire chest feels like it's been rammed by a train and he collapses halfway through the roll onto his back with a hand to where the blast made contact. Stars flash in his vision, his head swims, every part of him feels like it's on the verge of giving up.

The attacker runs towards Donut's side and immediately checks for a pulse, then stands and turns his attention to Wash again—and suddenly this scenario feels like it's happened before.

_He's not dead. Not yet._

Those words pound in his ears, déjà vu of a time when he felt the same, groggy, barely able to sit up straight as his friends lay dying around him. His panic, what he’s feeling right now as Donut lies prone on the floor, he’s felt this before, last time this happened. When was the last time someone shot him with a concussive rifle?

The attacker addresses Wash directly, voice low, dangerous. "You never fail to make a situation more complicated, Agent Washington."

It doesn't matter that his armor is different, it doesn't matter that he should be dead, Wash recognizes his voice instantly.

_Locus._

_I_ TOLD _YOU THIS WAS A MISTAKE!_

Sigma gathers every memory of Locus he has and practically shoves them to the forefront of Wash's mind, and Wash remembers the bleak moments after Locus had shot him with a concussive rifle, so many months and months ago. Locus was trying to knock him out now, same as then. If Sigma hadn't gotten Wash's attention, Wash wouldn't be here right now.

_THIS is why you listen—_

Wash doesn't wait for Sigma to finish the thought and immediately starts to reach for his pistol—but Locus is ahead of him and already has his rifle pointed at Wash's head.

"Don't test me," Locus growls. 

_What part of LISTEN don't you understand?!_

"Why are you _here_?" Wash spits back, partly at Locus, partly in hopes of getting Sigma to shut up.

Locus lowers his gun almost imperceptibly. "Isn't it obvious? I was sent by Dr. Grey to collect you."

The _asset._ That's Locus. Chorus is working with Locus. Wash isn't sure what's worse—that, or the fact that Locus is here to _collect_ him. That didn't go well for anyone last time.

Locus raises the concussive rifle once again when Donut coughs sharply, and for just a split second he looks away and Wash sees the opening. Wash immediately grabs his pistol and fires—and though Locus is alert enough to at least partially dodge, the bullet still lodges itself in his shoulder.

The merc stumbles back a step and puts a hand to his shoulder as Wash drags himself to his feet and lunges for Locus with a roar. The two go tumbling back as they grapple for the rifle, and after a few tense seconds, Wash finally manages to wrest it away—but he's barely done so before a fist collides with his face and Wash goes flying off of him. The rifle skitters across the floor, too far for either of them to reach.

Both of them are on their feet now, blood dripping from Locus's shoulder, Wash's head spinning, his chest still screaming from the graze.

"Hm," Locus grunts. "You've gotten weaker. Still, I commend you on your resistance. I'm surprised you're still standing."

"Fuck you," Wash growls back.

"Which one of you is in control right now, Washington or the AI?" Locus asks, still not taking his eyes off of Wash. "I expected the difference to be more...glaring, after seeing the devastation aboard your ship."

Wash feels something uncomfortable settle in his gut at the mention of what he did to Niner. "That...that was Omega, not me."

"Yes, I'm sure it was," Locus replies. "You would never attack one of your allies like that."

Wash doesn't reply—he's not entirely sure if that's sarcasm or not. Not that it matters, because it doesn't seem like he can win this. He's not going anywhere with Locus, regardless of the intent, but with the way this is going, he may not have a choice.

Sigma speaks suddenly, nervously.

 _Wash, we have to activate the emitter._  

No. He remembers what Donut said now, that emitter will destroy the base, not just the Meta suits. It'll decimate everything in the area, including the shield, and that's the only thing hiding this place from Charon.

_We WORK for Charon! You are their soldier, you have your orders, and I have mi—watch out!_

Wash just barely dodges as Locus lunges forward with a flurry of attacks that Wash isn't alert enough to avoid. Instead, he's helpless to do anything as Locus lands hit after brutal hit on him—and with every hit, Wash feels his energy slowly fading away.

_This is what I mean. The EMP will disable his armor and readouts for long enough for you to get away, you don't stand a chance otherwise!_

But Donut, everyone here—

_Wash, staying here will accomplish nothing, not for them or you! Do you really think Grey can successfully remove me from your brain? Maybe if I was still in your implants, yes, but Elodea's AI took care of that. You're overheating, barely surviving right now as it is, imagine if you're getting a brain surgery. Do what I tell you and trigger the EMP or I can PROMISE you we will die!_

Before common sense can take root, Sigma's panic floods every inch of his mind—and when Locus throws him backwards and Wash slams into the table, Wash has no choice.

He reaches frantically behind him until he makes contact with what he's looking for and before anyone can stop him Wash flips the switch.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, I worked on the back half of this for seven hours straight. I need to sleep and ponder why.
> 
> Nighto to all, see you next week!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to write this chapter for months, I had to make it good. Hopefully, after reading it, you understand why it's late.
> 
> I'm sorry, it's a mean one again.

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

…

Wash feels nothing.

Nothing. He's been hit by an EMP before, he knows what to expect, knows that he should be collapsing as his implants shortcircuit and every part of his body screams in agony for the few seconds until he passes out. But there's nothing. No sense of his implants shutting down, no pain. 

Everything else around him starts to fall apart.

He _watches_ the EMP wreak its devastation on this room—watches the wave of energy balloon out from behind him, watches every suit on the wall start to spark like holy hell, watches lights flicker and die along the walls. From the next room he hears the sound of computers whirring in protest and fuses burning out.

Locus, already on one knee, crumples to the ground as his power suit deactivates, dead weight until it can reboot, his visor going dark a few instants later. Wash can see him struggling for mobility, but for the moment, Locus is incapacitated. Barely an instant later, Donut's suit powers down, but Donut is so far gone that he barely reacts to the extra weight.

The EMP didn't do anything to Wash. Why is he still standing?

Maybe it won't be enough. It _can't_ be enough. Every fiber of his being hopes that what he's done isn't enough.

_We need to get out of here._

The sound of destruction echoes outside the base. To his horror, Wash can hear the hum of powering-down electronics in ultra-stereo from every direction, can hear it getting farther and farther away but louder and louder over the snowstorm outside, and then suddenly the base alarms stop—

_WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU_

Wash shouts in pain as Omega's scream is suddenly burning in his mind, and somehow through the pain he manages to realize that the shield just came down and that's why Omega's here, but he thought Omega was—

_NO, I wasn't fucking deleted, idiot! That motherfucking AI just kicked me out, I've been trying to reach you since you disappeared!_

_You're alright?_ Sigma asks, hurried but almost exploding with excitement and relief.

_No shit, but what the fuck happened to him?! It's a fucking furnace in here, a little more and he's gonna drop dead!_

_...He was resisting._

_Watch it, Sigma. He dies, we die!_

_I had no choice—_

_Jesus, what the fuck happened while I was gone? It's barely been ten minutes and there's already a distress signal being sent to literally everything with a receptor right now except him, says the base is gonna blow!_

Oh, no. The EMP worked. Wash just consigned Elodea to doom.

Sigma starts, _We didn't get—_

Before Sigma can finish the sentence, Wash's helmet receives a weak transmission, which immediately translates into text on his HUD:

 

**_AUTOMATIC ALARM: TEMPLE COMPROMISED_ **

**_EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY_ **

**_SELF-DESTRUCT IN 2:56_ **

 

_The AI didn't send it to him—obviously, it didn't trust the guy who kinda just fucked the place over._

Panic sets in when he sees the number. Not even three minutes. Wash has less than three minutes to get out of here before Elodea goes nuclear.

_Calm down. If we think this through, we will survive._

His eyes immediately flash to Locus, struggling to stand as his suit whirs in protest, and Donut, still prone on the ground. There are still people in this base, who knows if they'll make it out in time. Maybe Wash can get Donut out of here—Locus can burn in hell for all he cares. But he can't just leave Donut.

But where could he take him? He leaves Donut in the woods, Donut gets killed, same as everyone else. He brings Donut along and Wash is just handing him over to Charon.

_No point, Wash. If you care about your friend, let him die here instead of a prison cell._

No, there has to be some alternative to just leaving Donut here. There _has_ to be a way.

 

**_SELF-DESTRUCT IN 2:43_ **

 

_What do we got?_

_Vehicles will be down, it's too far to the Pelican by foot._

Sigma takes control of Wash without warning and drags his attention back to the suits along the wall, making Wash sprint over to one of the display cases. Though the enhancement compartments should be somewhat resistant to an EMP, most of the individual units had to have been damaged by the blown fuses triggered by the burst—but maybe there's one that made it. He rifles through the compartment in the suit and withdraws the speed unit. This one is hit bad. Broken, canisters cracked—he throws it aside.

Wash moves over to the next suit and finds the same problem. The third unit he checks has a few singed wires, but with luck it might be salvageable.

He fits it into his own armor and feels Omega disappear into the functions of his suit, trying to rewire and calibrate the unit as fast as possible.

 

**_SELF-DESTRUCT IN 2:08_ **

 

_Got it!_

The speed unit powers on and Wash can instantly feel the rush of adrenaline burning through his veins as the machine injects what has to be a _lot_ of steroids and stimulants into his bloodstream. If he wasn't so panicked right now, it might actually feel exciting, this burst of unfiltered energy that he hasn't felt in a while.

Then he takes a step back from the wall, and when he does the entire world starts to spin. Oh, fuck, that's not great. That's the _opposite_ of great. If there was anything substantial in his stomach, he would be throwing it up.

Omega returns to the suit, immediately taking control of Wash's HUD and doing hundreds of calculations that Wash can barely even begin to understand. _I quadrupled the drug dosage, it's gonna fuck with him but it should be fast enough._

_How fast?_

_90 if we're lucky._

_You know we have to pass that._

_Well, yeah, but I doubt he can handle it._

_HE isn't doing anything. He hasn't used one of these before, so the less time experimenting, the better. I'll drive, you steer._

_His implants are literally—_

_Only for a few seconds. He'll have the entire Pelican ride to recover._

_...Fine. Get ready._

His vision goes red—and just like that, Wash feels his control over his body disappear. But this time it's not just Sigma, or just Omega. It's equal parts of both Sigma and Omega, with both of them conversing at the speed of thought and plotting every critical movement he's going to make for the next few seconds. His own mind can barely keep up with them— 

A burning lance of pain sears at the back of his neck, worse than any other instance he's felt it before, and he _desperately_ wants to scream, but the AI have already taken control of everything.

_I told you!_

_He'll manage._

Only this time, the pain doesn't stop. It just keeps burning and burning, and _burning,_ god, it's still not stopping. But oblivious to the pain, the AI make Wash stow his pistol and move him into a running position.

_You'll manage, Wash. Omega, how much longer?_

_Fucking hold on!_

There's the dull sound of suits rebooting to his right, and Wash sees Locus finally force himself upright with a roar. He looks to Wash for a split second, visor unreadable, before going over to the wall of suits and hurriedly checking their enhancements.

He's going to run and leave Donut here.

Donut's going to be _alone._

No, that can't happen. Wash has to get Donut out of here.

_He'll just be dead weight, Wash—_

_Done! Let's go._

No, they can't just leave, people, his _friend,_ they're all going to die here. He can't just _leave_ Donut here. He has to help!

_Jesus Christ, shut up!_

_Nothing you can do is going to get him out of here._

_We're wasting time just talking to you. Sigma, we NEED to go._

No, no. Don't leave Donut to die, not _again_.

_...I won't lie, Wash. This is going to hurt, so just bear with it._

 

**_SELF-DESTRUCT IN 1:59_ **

 

No.

_Now!_

Wash takes off.

What follows in the next few seconds is a blur. His world is broken into nanoseconds, and every nanosecond is filled with millions of pieces of sensory data as Wash rockets through the base at a speed he's almost thought impossible. Omega and Sigma are conversing too fast for Wash to follow, as Omega yells out instructions and Sigma moves Wash accordingly. The pain at the back of his head triples the moment he starts to move, and within instants he can feel every muscle in his body screaming in protest, but somehow he keeps going and after barely five seconds, they're outside the base, and the AI expertly direct him around the dying trees and through the snowstorm until Wash grinds to a stop in front of the Pelican and collapses.

The AI release him immediately and Omega disappears into the ship, and the first thing Wash feels is that he's _burning,_ every part of him is screaming for reprieve and especially his implants, if his body is burning then the implants are the source of that fire. He rips his helmet off and throws it aside into the snow, but not before seeing the base alarm:

 

**_SELF-DESTRUCT IN 1:31_ **

 

Eighteen seconds. He just got here, _over two kilometers away_ , in eighteen seconds.

_I told you we could break 90._

The ship starts in front of him and the ramp drops down to the snow, but Wash doesn't move, just takes in the freezing air around him in hopes of cooling down, lets it sting against his cheeks. Every breath is a struggle, like he's fighting against a thousand pounds of pressure on his lungs.

_What's his temperature?_

Omega pops back in. _109, and vitals are pretty shit. We have to go._

"H-hold on," Wash croaks, shakily pulling his gauntlets off and throwing them down beside him. He scoops up a handful of snow and immediately presses it against the implants—and the severity of his situation only becomes apparent when he hears the sound of hissing steam. The implants are _literally_ burning.

_Wash, it's not a fucking request—_

_Wait, Omega. Give him a moment._

A few more seconds pass and Wash digs his bare hands into the snow, deep as he can. The numbing chill is immediately satisfying, and without waiting for any sort of direction, he takes another handful of snow and cups it over the back of his neck.

_Check the implant temperature again._

_...106.8._

His legs feel like he's just finished running a marathon. Still burning up, Wash struggles with the seals on his armor and takes off the hard outer plating, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but his undersuit. The difference is instantaneous. He gasps in relief at the cold and practically throws himself backwards into the snow, marveling at the sensation of the damp cold against his hair and skin and the hot metal at the back of his neck. He _hates_ the cold, but he's never needed it more desperately.

_104._

_It's working._

_It's a waste of time!_

_This is far more efficient than the alterna—_

_We're under a minute here, which, by the way, you would KNOW if you didn't get so fucked by the base._

_...Perhaps efficiency will have to wait. Wash, get up._

Despite every part of his body screaming in protest, Wash listens and forces himself upright. The pain in his implants isn't nearly as bad as the pounding headache taking its place—the speed drugs. Omega warned him that they wouldn't be a good experience. Wash staggers aboard the ship, leaving the discarded pieces of his armor behind, and collapses against the pilot's chair in the cockpit, pulling himself into the seat.

Niner. The panicked thought hits him immediately as he hits the chair. He left Niner here, is she—

The cockpit door slams shut behind him before he can check, magnetic locks immediately clicking into place. He's trapped. Omega switches to the controls and the engine roars to life beneath Wash's feet—and within seconds, the ship is off the ground and rapidly gaining speed.

_Wash, we need to check in with Control. Repeat after me._

Wash echoes the words Sigma projects to him, taking long desperate pauses to catch his breath. "This...this is Icarus Seven, Washington pilot. We found Elodea but had to flee during an...an unexpected problem. Heading back now."

As he speaks, he forces himself to stand and presses his hands against the window, looking back at Elodea. The Pelican has cleared most of the taller trees by now, but the base is visible from this angle and Wash can see the temple vividly against the snow, as well as the sprawling citylike complexes surrounding it and the huge factory only a short ways from the tower. From so high up, it's an eerie sight, quiet, still, like a ghost town. There are no lights in the base—and if Wash squints, he can barely just make out a line of vehicles fleeing the base through the forest towards the remains of Armonia.

Then something strange happens. There's a dull flash of green from the point of the tower, and another, and another, closer and closer together each time—and with each one, a pulse of translucent green energy expands outwards towards the ground, until Elodea is surrounded by a thin glowing semicircle of energy. He can still see the base through it, though, it must be a different kind of shield.

So somehow they reactivated it. A small weight, however minuscule, lifts off his chest. Maybe it'll keep in the explosion. The people escaping will be safe.

_Who activated it?_

...Someone must've had to stay behind to get to the tower.

He takes another deep breath, no longer comforted by the shield. Who just sacrificed themselves to save everyone else?

This death is on him.

He gulps and presses his palms harder against the glass, leaning forward. "Omega, how mu—"

Wash is staring right at the factory when Elodea explodes.

There's a flash of blinding light from inside, so bright it's as if all the windows of the factory become a sea of stars, and that vision only lasts for a millisecond before a wave of searing flame expands outwards from the factory and slams against the wall of green. He can immediately hear the explosion's deafening boom, followed by the roaring of the flames as they expand outwards and decimate every inch of Elodea. Buildings crumple and disintegrate. Snow falls and turns to ash. The ground buckles beneath the structures of the base and sends up a plume of dust into the air. 

When the flames start to subside, replaced by smoke, there's a piercing cracking sound, a single fracture almost as poignant as the explosion. He watches in abject horror as the base of the temple gives way to the flames and buckles inward, and crack by crack, the rest of the tower starts to cave, until the weight of the structure is too much for it and it falls inwards on itself and disappears into the flames—but the shield somehow remains operational and the devastation is contained within the base.

The line of jeeps skids to a stop in the distance, and Wash can see the soldiers like ants as they leap off their cars to look at the massacre they have just escaped. The thundering explosion has given way to fire, and Elodea is gone.

Wash can't breathe. He's unable to pull away, no matter how loud his heart is screaming for reprieve. This is him. This is his fault. The armies of Chorus needed those suits to fight Charon, and now the base, this little safe haven in the forest, is destroyed, and good people are dead, and all because Wash was too weak to fight back against his memories of Maine and the AIs' influence.

Something gives, and suddenly Wash can't stare at his handiwork anymore. He staggers backwards and collapses against the back of the pilot's chair, vision blurry as he sinks to the ground and Elodea disappears against the edge of the window, the forest giving way to inky blackness and stars, bright as the windows of Elodea's factory.

There is no response from Charon.

_...Omega._

_Yeah._

Their voices are quiet, passive. No longer as if they're the ones in control.

_Set autopilot for the Staff of Charon, then power down. And make sure to adjust the atmospheric controls correctly first. Our job here is done._

Sigma falls silent.

There's an odd whirring in the ship's ventilation shafts and Wash can feel it getting colder almost immediately, followed by the ship lights dimming. Omega disappears without another sound.

Wash is alone, and Elodea is gone.

...

What follows are the worst nine hours of his life.

There's no sound, and Wash isn't sure if that's because of the void of space or if it's really just the silence of not having any voices in his head. The AI are silent, probably gone for now, and the ship is operating on low power so even this ship itself is barely making a noise. Just him and silence.

And because of that, there's nothing to distract him from the horror of what he's done. There's nothing to stop him from seeing that explosion on repeat, from imagining what must've happened to anyone that was still inside the base when the reactor blew. From imagining what must've happened to Donut.

He still can't quite breathe, but he forces himself to try, because he doesn't _want_ to breathe, doesn't want to be alive right now, knowing the consequences of what he's done.

They almost caught him. _Almost._ Wash wanted it so bad. And Locus almost captured him, but Wash was too concerned with it being Locus to realize that getting captured by Locus was his way out of this nightmare. That was his chance to go home.

Somewhere around two hours after the explosion, after he finds the energy to move and the headache from the speed drugs has begun to wane, he drags himself to his feet and assesses the situation. The first thing he realizes is that it was stupid to leave his weapons and armor at Elodea. He had taken everything with him into the base, and now when he goes back to Charon, he'll have nothing to defend himself with.

He's going back. Nothing he can do will change it. He doesn't know how to pilot a ship, doesn't know how to disable the autopilot, has no plan or means of escaping again. This was the closest thing to a last chance he could've gotten and he fucked it up. Now who knows what's going to happen when he returns.

The cockpit is even smaller than the back of the ship, and after only a few minutes of standing up, claustrophobia starts to kick in _._ He avoids looking outside as best as he can but it's pretty hard, considering the windows cover more than half of the wall space. He tries the door to the bay multiple times over the duration of the flight, but every time he does, it remains in place. 

Niner's back there—alone too, maybe conscious, he can't tell through the door and doesn't know how to access the cameras. He left the key to her cuffs in the storage compartment of his armor, but maybe, if he could get back there, he could find a way to get her out of the cuffs, apologize for years and years to come, and maybe she could disable the autopilot and find a way to turn them around.

Would they even be welcome on Chorus, after what he's done? No, probably not. Maybe Niner can just take them both to a different place. Somewhere out of Lochley's reach. Somewhere where nobody knows Alexandra Kittinger or David Kessler and they can both just disappear.

If only the fucking door would open.

But it won't, because of course Sigma and Omega thought of everything. They locked him in a cage and threw away the key, and without them he will never break out.

His entire body groans in protest with every movement he makes. When he takes inventory of his injuries, he finds a large number of fresh bruises, courtesy of Locus, a couple cuts on his face, and a particularly horrible one on the side of his chest where he'd been hit with the concussion rifle. Something is definitely wrong with his right leg too, but he can't really assess the damage without his biocoms. He might have pulled something in there—with the speed unit, it wouldn't surprise him.

The contradiction in his mind is infuriating. He so badly wants to escape, while at the same time knowing that it's impossible. There are a lot of times where Wash wants to scream, do something, shatter the silence around him—but right when the words are on the tip of his tongue, he remembers the flash of lights as Elodea's factory exploded, and those words die out.

Around hour four—five? Delta hasn't yet resurfaced to correct him—Wash curls up underneath the control panel and just stays there. It's the best position, he can't see any of the windows from there. He wants to sleep but knows it's pointless to try. 

It's gotten colder. His implants no longer burn, but now _everything_ is cold. Luckily, he found something for that. Maine's old sweater, Niner must've thrown it under the control panel to keep it safe. It had taken him a good ten minutes of grappling with his emotions before he had finally relented and pulled the sweater on. It's not much warmer with it on, but it's big like a blanket and it's better than nothing.

He thinks about people a lot. Mostly the dead ones. All the deaths that are his fault. Murphy comes up a lot, he can't stop thinking about how broken Jin's scream had sounded. He thinks about the people who must've died in the first rescue mission to get him, Brighton, and Palomo. He tries not to think about Caboose and Donut, but they're unforgettable, and no matter what, he always comes back to them.

The more he thinks about the people who still remain, the more certain he is that he could never go back and face them.

Which one is honestly the worst choice? Back to Chorus, or back to Charon?

He stays down there for the rest of the flight, contemplating that question, hating what he's caused, what he's done. Dreading whatever comes next.

Knowing there's no way out.

...

With a jolt, the Pelican starts to slow down and bright artificial lights flicker through the windows, reflecting off the metal inside the ship. Wash looks up but can't see a thing outside. The Staff must be close, what else would—

Without warning, the ship screeches to a halt, and Wash is thrown to the floor with a yelp. Almost immediately, he hears the sound of an airlock closing behind the Pelican, cutting off any escape. Panic takes hold as he hears armored boots thundering towards him, and it only worsens when the ship shakes as the ramp is manually lowered.

Wash pulls himself to his feet and instinctively moves so that the pilot chair is between him and the door to the cockpit, for whatever good that will do him. A part of him wishes that one of the AI would chime in with advice, an escape plan—but they're more silent than they've ever been, and that void in his head that he'd almost forgotten is back and impossible to ignore.

There's the vague sound of a struggle outside the door, but it ends almost immediately, and Wash looks out the window to see a pair of Charon soldiers, not mercenaries, dragging a struggling Niner across the floor. The ship has landed in the same LZ where it'd taken off from, not even a day ago—but instead of being deserted like before, there's a welcome party, at least a dozen soldiers armed to the teeth with their guns all trained on the ship.

The door to the cockpit opens and before Wash is ready, a trio of mercs rush through the open doorway, blocking the only exit. There's barely a moment to figure out what's going on when one of the mercs fires a taser directly at his chest.

Wash screams and crumples to the ground, limbs twitching, every muscle far beyond his control. The other two mercs run to his side and grab him roughly under the arms, dragging him to the other merc who's waiting with handcuffs. As soon as the cuffs click shut around his wrists, they pull him to the back of the ship, where someone in a uniform similar to Lochley's is waiting with a small metal square in his hand.

"Bring him over here," he says flatly—and as he does, he fiddles with the square and out from two of the sides come longer bands of metal that look suspiciously like a collar.

Somehow his panic at seeing the device manages to break through the pain of the taser. Wash manages to shove one of the mercs off of him for a second before the other one rams a knee into Wash's torso and stuns him for just long enough for them to get a firm grip on him again. Wash struggles pointlessly as the mercs pull him towards the man and hold him down so that the back of his neck is exposed.

The man grabs his shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong, and places the device against Wash's implants, and Wash lets out a strangled gasp as he feels the device connect with the implant site and suddenly everything is freezing, as if he's back in the snowstorm, why is it so _cold?_

The man hums, satisfied by his reaction, and fastens the rest of the collar around Wash's neck. It's just tight enough to be uncomfortable. "That should keep him from overheating during today's test. Take him to Lochley."

Two of the mercs lift Wash to his feet and march him towards the front of the ship, throwing him to his knees and taking a few steps back. As they throw him down he catches sight of Niner in front of him, also handcuffed and on her knees, with a pair of guards standing on either side of her. She looks ragged, her thick hair strewn around her face, her flight suit in tatters, but otherwise she's alive.

She looks up for a split second and locks eyes with him, and for a moment, Wash can see the terror flash across her face as she realizes that neither one of them escaped.

Then Wash looks up and Lochley is standing only a couple of feet away, staring down at him with a single black pistol held by her side.

For a terrifying few moments, there is silence, every bit as suffocating as the stillness of space. Every soldier has a gun aimed at him, but nothing is quite as petrifying as the fact that Wash can't read Lochley. Her face is blank and there's no tell, no expression of any kind that can help him understand what kind of trouble he's in.

Lochley closes her eyes and sighs. "You didn't honestly think we'd let you go that easily, did you?"

Wash opens his mouth to reply and immediately regrets it, because the second he does, Lochley withdraws a small remote from her coat pocket with a single button. She depresses the button and suddenly there's excruciating pain in every inch of his body and it's just like the shocks from before, unbearable in every way.

He starts to collapse forward and his guards catch him, holding him up by his shoulders, and Lochley just looks on, unamused. "I'm glad to see that the neural shocks are so effective on you. Most methods of getting you to cooperate have only lasted a few hours at a time at best, but this one—well, suffice it to say, it works. If you try to interrupt me again, I will hold this button down until my hand cramps. Are we understood, Agent Washington?"

Wash struggles for air and nods, and she releases the button. "Good."

There's silence for a few more seconds, the only sound Wash's labored breathing as he tries and fails to ignore the pain. Lochley taps the gun against her thigh lightly a few times.

"You've been quite a...a difficult test subject this far," she finally says. "Resilient, of course, but difficult nonetheless. I guess you don't survive such a difficult procedure without being fucking incorrigible. In a way, I think your difficulty is what makes you a perfect candidate for this program—if the implant procedure can work on _you_ to accomplish something as grand as what you did at Elodea, then it will certainly be a success with other cases in the future. And who knows? There may not even _be_ a future. You may be the last ICARUS candidate, depending on what happens in the next stage of the project.

"If nothing else, I must commend you for your excellent job in destroying Elodea. If the information we received from Omega is correct, you managed to destroy the base and their M374 armor replicas within less than an hour from touchdown—and this was a base that we weren't even sure _existed_. The planet is in a frenzy over it, troops are demoralized, and our armies are gaining ground as they handle anyone found near the Elodea ruins. No matter your position, you have to admit, it's impressive."

For a moment it seems as if she's about to smile. Then she sighs, refocusing attention on Wash.

"Unfortunately, we can't just overlook your disloyalty. You did wonderfully, despite your mishaps, but that doesn't excuse you. I may be tolerant of small things—for example, that sweater you're currently wearing—but trying to run away? I'm not so forgiving of that."

Lochley reaches into her pocket, putting the remote away for a moment, and pulls out a small object that Wash instantly recognizes.

"Do you know what this is?"

Wash doesn't respond, and Lochley scoffs dryly, turning the ancient pager over in her hand before shoving it back in her pocket.

"I expected as much. After all, we did find it in your cell after you left. We _also_ had a backup generator for the security cameras, just in case something, oh, _unexplained_ happened with the original power source."

Wash realizes with a sinking heart what she means. She heard _everything_. Every conversation with Niner, every bit of their plot to escape. The entire time, Wash thought he and Niner had found a way around her, but Lochley knew everything about their entire plan.

He glances over to Niner and sees the same shock in her eyes that he's feeling. She didn't know either. Both of them were completely fooled.

Wash gulps as Lochley steps forward and crouches down until she's at eye level with him.

"I have to admit, I find it pretty remarkable how naive you can be. Judging by some of your actions, I bet you actually thought that you had some sort of privacy here. After all, if you didn't, I doubt you two would've talked about such...trivial things. And of course, when I realized that she had given you the pager, I tracked down the frequency of the device and monitored those conversations as well. What _salacious_ gossip I learned from the two of you—and then, when you were speaking with the Generals?" She lets out a barking laugh. "Icing on the cake. At this point, I'm fairly certain that I have more than enough information to find and destroy each of your remaining allies and hold it over you for the rest of our time together. _Or_ , even better, I could threaten them, because I understand you, Washington, I know you'll do _anything_ to protect those you care about. Well, sometimes."

Lochley looks over her shoulder to Niner with a dark smirk, then turns back to Wash. "Alex looks _awful, did_ you do that? Impressive. I'll have to take a note of Omega's effectivity in combat for your following missions. Amazing what you can do with just a taser and a pistol, no?"

She must see the horror in his eyes because she stands back up and laughs again, harder this time, almost giddy. "My _goodness_ , Washington, you've been played like a fiddle! You did wonderfully, falling for everything I set up for you to trip over. I let you escape. I made sure the Eta hardcode stuck so, when the time came, you would be paranoid enough to turn against Kittinger. I made sure your guards had EMP-resistant suits. I pulled most of the workers on the second floor off-duty for the night. _Fuck_ , I even made sure the Pelican was stocked with sedatives, and that Kittinger knew that you couldn't transmit the alarm while unconscious! And while you were awake, I just gradually increased the Omega state percentage, bit by bit, so slowly that you barely noticed the anger building until it was too late—"

"Wash, don't listen to her," Niner suddenly spits, and Lochley's smile vanishes. "I heard everything that happened in the base over your radio, she's just acting all high and mighty to cover the fact that she's pissed you almost made it—"

Lochley presses the button and a cry of agony escapes from Wash before he can catch it, his vision swimming, every muscle begging for relief. When she releases the button, he crumples forward again, and again the guards catch him and hold him upright.

"And _you,"_ Lochley hisses at Niner. "The next time _you_ interrupt, it won't be just him screaming."

Niner goes still.

Satisfied, Lochley turns back to Wash and plasters a fake smile on her face. "...In a way, you did have more success escaping me than expected—thanks to Kittinger sabotaging a good portion of our controls before leaving. It took a few hours to repair them, but now they're good as new. And of course, the shield around the base made it _difficult_ to know how the situation would unfold, but the AI held up and you managed to complete your mission. You see, complications notwithstanding, the point I'm trying to make is this—you can try to resist, try to fight, but you will never escape."

Lochley coughs into her hand with the pistol, then looks back at him pointedly.

"This, of course, leads us to today's test. The results of the past few experiments were quite useful in figuring out the proper ways to use this system. But now we're in a bit of trouble. You see, the AI as they currently are don't quite seem to do enough to keep you in line. I think there are some things we can do to change that. Tech Officer Ola?"

The man from the Pelican, the one who had put the collar on Wash, steps forward. "Yes, sir?"

"Congratulations, officer. You've been promoted to the night shift," she declares. "Use the terminal behind you."

Ola says, "Of course," and scampers towards the same terminal Niner had used originally to gain control of the Pelican.

"Outwardly, the implants seem fine. How are we on operating function?"

"Good— _better_ than good, considering the circumstances. Some singed wires, a couple completely burnt out, but otherwise the cooling collar seems to be working."

"Brain damage?"

"A few dangerous contacts with fried electronics, but according to diagnostics, no visible scarring. The bad wires need to be replaced before they cause any serious trouble."

"Understood. We'll take him in for reparative surgery after today's test, then move him into stage two."

"Yes, sir."

Lochley looks directly at Wash and holds his gaze, addressing Ola. 

"Officer, when you're ready, set Epsilon state to 100%."

Oh, no.

When everything changes, the first thing Wash remembers is Kylie.

Wash's older sister was a photography nut. She'd waste all her spare money on the most expensive, stupid elaborate cameras she could find, and then she'd spend hours telling him all these things about the cameras, how they worked, how they did all those crazy things that made pictures look good. The only lesson that had ever stuck with him was the one where Kylie had snapped the shutters off the camera and exposed the film to images for seconds at a time, and because the shutter didn't close, all the movements were blurred together, a little too bright, like every frame of a video laid over the rest.

When Ola activates Epsilon, Wash's vision becomes that broken camera. The world becomes just a little too bright, everything surrounded in the thin outline of a white glow, and every movement remains behind as the next takes place. Lochley cocks her head to the side and Wash sees every part of the movement all at once, a blur of moments all compounded into a single instant. It's—

_It's a memory._

Epsilon's voice is fragile, more static than words.

_We should've died when we had the chance._

The sound of him stabs Wash deep down inside, because this is exactly what Epsilon sounded like right before he tried to kill himself.

_She's making a new memory for us._

A memory. Everything Wash sees is being committed to memory. Every instant, movement, sound, thought, everything is being stored, and repeated until it sticks. Memorization.

_I don't want to remember anymore, Wash, okay? A-and neither do you. There has to...has to be some way out of this bullshit. We just have to not remember._

But this isn't something either of them can fight, Wash can feel it, because he can barely understand what's going on but he knows that Epsilon's innate drive to remember is too powerful for either of them to resist.

_No, d-don't fucking think like that! We can fight if we try. We have to!_

"Bring Kittinger over here," Lochley says sharply, and when she speaks, every word echoes and overlaps with the next. Niner's guards oblige and drag her to a stop between Lochley and Wash—but with Epsilon active, Wash can't help but commit everything to memory. Wash remembers every inch that she moves, memorizes the way her feet drag on the ground, learns the exact rhythm of her guards' footfalls beside her and still hears it tapping _tapping_ long after the guards have stopped.

Lochley takes a step forward and flicks her pistol's safety off.

"No." The word slips out without permission, and all Wash can do is memorize how fragile _how fragile_ he sounds. "Don't do it, _please."_

Lochley doesn't respond, doesn't even go for the remote to shock him.

_No, NO! We have to fight, Wash! Don't let her do this!_

But Wash can't do anything, he's helpless to do anything but watch as the guards hold him in place.

Niner breathes shakily and looks at Wash, tears in her eyes, _tears in her eyes,_ determination permanently embedded in her features like it's always been. She knows what's happening. She knows that there's no way out of this one. All the crazy adventures they've gotten into, _crazy adventures,_ every time during Project Freelancer and Recovery that they got into a bad situation, _they made it out._

As if reading his mind, a small, wry smile appears on Niner's face. She scoffs. "Heh...not this time, huh?"

_Not this time, huh. Not this time. Not thi—no, NO, stop it!_

Lochley raises the pistol, the movement a blurred arc of destruction in his mind—and Wash can feel Epsilon losing touch, getting more and more scared, closer and closer _and closer and closer_ to cracking. Thoughts repeat without warning, it's like everything that enters his mind is stuck on a permanent loop. The white glow around Niner becomes brighter, and Epsilon is focusing on her and trying and failing to just ignore her, struggling against all the details that are swarming them both, but it's too much and Epsilon amplifies and repeats and holds onto every moment as if it's the last memory he's ever going to make.

_I don't want to remember this, PLEASE, you have to find a way to stop me!_

"I, uh..." Niner looks down, that wry smile still on her face. Her voice shakes. "I don't really have anything final to say, Wash. Not like I came _prepared_ for this, y'know?"

_WASH, PLEASE!!_

Everything gets brighter, almost to the point of being unbearable, but Wash can still make out every detail and he can't forget a thing. Neither one of them can fight this.

Lochley steps forward, heels clicking _clicking_ against the ground as she moves to Niner's side and holds the pistol a few inches from Niner's head.

_NO, NO!_

"I _did_ warn you, Agent Washington," Lochley says coolly, her finger bouncing over _over the trigger._ "I told you that betraying Charon was a mistake. I warned you that you would regret it, didn't I?"

_You would regret it, regret it, regret, regret, regret—_

Epsilon has been reduced to babbling repetition, unable to do anything but echo.

Niner's breathing gets funny, and she glances up at the gun before locking eyes with Wash. "D-don't blame yourself, okay? For any of this. We both fucked up, but nothing that happens to me is your fault, Wash. Understand?"

_Don't blame yourself, we fucked up, fucked up, don't blame, blame, blame yourself, blame yourself, fucked—_

"Wash, you can't let her win because of me, okay? Promise me?"

_Can't let her win, can't let her, let her, we let her win—_

Lochley looks down at Niner and Niner looks up at her and for a split second their eyes meet and then **_BANG._**

Wash jerks back at the sound and a sob rips free of him as the guards hold him in place and force him to watch as Niner dies.

Epsilon screams as the pistol fires and Niner collapses on her side in front of Wash, a pool of blood blossoming outwards under her head, her eyes milky and lifeless, and Epsilon keeps screaming in Wash's mind, violently, loud enough for the both of him, which is good because Wash is choking, he couldn't scream if he tried.

Then Epsilon snaps.

**_BANG_**.

Lochley says something but Wash doesn't hear it, because the world is on replay. He's seeing it all again, every detail. He sees the gun fire, watches the light drain from Niner's eyes, watches the blood spray across the floor, hears Epsilon's wordless scream, all of it as vivid as the first time.

Wash makes a strangled noise and tries to drown it out, but it's too much for him and

_you can't let her win because of me, okay, promise me_ and **_BANG._**

The guards drag him to his feet but in his mind he's still on his knees as Niner is shot, he's still watching her fall, still seeing it in perfect detail, no matter where he looks.

**_BANG._ **

Niner hits the ground again. Reality continues around him and Wash is stuck in the moment, a prisoner to the memory. And all the while, Epsilon is screaming, screaming, and the memory is getting brighter and the space between flashes gets shorter and **_BANG._**

Wash buckles under his own weight, suddenly too weak to stand, but the guards hoist him back up and drag him towards the exit of the hangar.

**_BANG._ **

They pass other people in the hallways, but Wash sees nothing, just hears the soft gasp Niner makes as the bullet passes through her skull, somehow clear above Epsilon's screams, watches her fall, again and again.

By the time the guards stop at a door in the prison wing, Wash has seen Niner die twenty-one times, every time more painful than the last. One of them keys open the door while the other unlocks his handcuffs, and the second they're off, they shove Wash onto the floor of the cell and close the door behind him. There are no lights, no furnishings, just a metal cube. The air is stale and it's hard to breathe, but Wash doesn't care, because the memory is the only thing right now he can think about.

**_BANG._ **

Wash curls up in the furthest corner of the cell as Epsilon's wails grow stronger. Every replay of Niner's death has gotten more vivid, more impossible to forget.

**_BANG._ **

Something disappears. An old memory, Wash and his squad out during basic training, flashes bright for a moment and then is gone.

He's _forgetting_.

For a moment, Wash realizes what Epsilon is doing, and terrified, Wash tries to reach out to him, get him to calm down, to stop replaying this torment—but he's inconsolable and Wash can't get him to stop no matter how hard he tries. Epsilon continues to remember and repeat, the only thing he knows how to do, and every time it's more vivid, more horrible, inescapable.

And now, every time the gunshot rings out, it takes a little piece of Wash with it.

**_BANG._ **

There's an explosion in a snowstorm, heartwrenching, horrible, then gone.

**_BANG._ **

The doctor said she could fix his...what? What's wrong with him? What needs to be fixed?

**_BANG._ **

An awkward salute from a pilot turned scientist vanishes from his memory.

**_BANG._ **

A nameless soldier topples, her blood splattered on the ground below her. Another soldier in a shade of red falls down, dead at his hands. Then they're gone.

**_BANG._ **

4, 7 and 9 become meaningless numbers. North and south become pointless directions. States become states. There are two Carolinas. Not one.

**_BANG._ **

A color, not quite green and not quite blue, familiar yet unnameable, is gone.

**_BANG._ **

There was something in his head. Some _things_. Maybe something. Nothing.

**_BANG._ **

What was his little sister's name again?

**_BANG._ **

He has a sister?

**_BANG._ **

Where is he?

**_BANG._ **

**_BANG._ **

**_BANG._ **

The memory grows brighter and takes over every inch of his mind, and as it does, it pushes other memories out of the way, until there's no space left and those other memories are erased. And Wash watches it happen, watches as pieces of him start to wither and fade, until they're so far detached that he doesn't notice them delete themselves.

He stays in that corner, silent, barely moving, his mind slowly desensitizing to the memories, to Epsilon's cries, helpless as everything that he knows slowly slips away. Minutes fade to hours, dozens of repeats of the memory become hundreds, an unending torrent.

**_BANG._ **

The 327th time he watches Niner die, Wash stops flinching at the gunshot.

**_BANG._ **

Details start to slip from the memory. Wash can no longer hear the pounding of boots as they storm along the floor. A hundred replays later, the memory is devoid of color. Two hundred more and there is no sound at all. A few more and the images have turned to blurs. 

The 852nd time the memory replays, Wash no longer recognizes the person being murdered behind his eyes.

**_BANG._ **

The 853rd time, Agent Washington forgets his name.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hhhhhhhs*
> 
> why do i do this
> 
> um
> 
> I'm posting a short chapter thursday sometime or friday morning, kind of an interlude
> 
> please prompt me in the angst war or fluff war i could use it
> 
> hhh see you then


	14. Chapter 14

_**THIRTEEN POINT FIVE** _

...

_The first time Lavernius Tucker sees Elodea is after it's gone._

_He goes alone. Obviously, he goes alone. What kind of sick bastard brings more people along with him to a base that's been nuked?_

_He finds himself stopped at the barrier that surrounds what used to be Elodea. His sword is in his hands, but no part of him feels the urgent need to activate it just yet. All he needs is a moment, to think, to try and understand what he's seeing._

_In his head, Tucker runs over what Grey had told him to do. She'd been vague, annoyingly vague. Follow the coordinates, get in, find the bunker, get out. None of that prepared him for a city in ruins._

_He tilts his head back as far as it can go. A wall of fragile green energy extends upward before him, way too high to see the top of, and beyond it there's just fire. He can't see past the fire. Grey warned him his sensors wouldn't work, and she was right, because there's nothing but nuclear fucking holocaust as far as the eye can see._

_This was Wash._

_Something catches in his throat and he looks down at his toes, watching the glow of the flames lick the snow around his boots. It's been, what, half an hour since the planet shook? Since every other temple sent out an alarm that the Temple of Defense had been destroyed? How is this place still on fire? Is there anything left to burn?_

_How the fuck was this Wash?_

_Every spurt of fire seems to scream that name at him. Wash, Wash, Wash. That flame? Wash. That other flame? Also Wash. All Wash. This shouldn't have his name all over it, but it's there nonetheless, except Tucker can't fucking believe it. Wash, Wash, Wash—_

_Gunfire somewhere in the woods brings his focus jarringly back to the forest. Charon must've followed him here. Of course they did. Of course everything is going wrong. Why wouldn't it? Exploding bases, murderous best friends, fire constantly reminding him of the fact that his best friend is responsible for all this. What else is new?_

_Grey's words echo in his head. Coordinates. Get in. Bunker. Get out._

_Grey didn't tell him to do anything about Wash. So he should just suck it up, pretend that Wash isn't the issue right now, and get going._

_Another burst of gunfire, closer. If Tucker squints, he can see the mercs in the distance, grey armor stark against the snow. Too much closer and they'll pick them up on their radar, camo or not._

_Tucker swears under his breath and turns back to the shield, this time staring directly ahead, ignoring the flames as they whisper, Wash, Wash, Wash—_

"—ke up."

Tucker jolts awake to Carolina gently shaking his shoulder—not that it would take even that much to wake him. The past seven hours, he's been in a state somewhere between completely dead inside and wide fucking awake. His eyes have been cracked open, but he hasn't really registered anything that's been happening around him, instead living in the memory of yesterday.

His hand is around the sword hilt before he can quite process that Carolina is just trying to wake him up—and only after her hand clamps around his wrist does he finally take note of his surroundings and release the blade.

He looks up. Carolina's not even looking at him as she holds his arm in place. Her eyes are locked on the door to her right, which is open for the first time in what feels like days.

Dr. Grey is standing in the doorway between the operating room and the cramped hallway outside, in which all the Reds, Carolina, and Tucker have been camped for the past few hours. They haven't seen her in a while either. Her scrubs are stained with blood, too much, way too much.

Tucker pulls his hand free of Carolina's grip and sits up straighter, wary of the eyes on him. Everyone is staring at him—because why wouldn't they be? He hasn't been around them for longer than ten minutes at a time since all of Blue Team went to shit. Seven hours, gracing them with his presence? Fuckin' bizarre. Even strangers, people he's never known, they've just been staring at him as they walk past. They probably see him as a cryptid on par with Bigfoot or Nessie or whatever would happen if those two cryptids somehow made weird ultra-cryptid babies. That kind of rare.

It feels wrong, being with this group again, after he's spent the larger piece of three months avoiding them. A huge part of him wants to get off this bench right now, just walk away, but he can't. Not with Grey's face looking like that. Staring at her, Tucker feels like that douchebag in a movie who asks, "Who died?", and the doctor just stays there, and you just immediately know that saying it was a mistake.

Maybe everyone else in this group is thinking like he is right now. Hearing the words Wash, Wash, Wash, as they try and sort out the reality of this, that Wash is alive, and that he did this. That would explain the general aura of anger and frustration he can feel radiating off the Reds from across the hallway. Fuck, he can feel that vibe coming from everyone on the planet. There's no way of hiding the fact that the warning about Elodea was sent to every temple, and when people had demanded to know, the Generals had ended up blaming the experimental technology to try and avoid a panic—but judging by the disheartened looks on people's faces, nobody believed them.

Grey takes a deep breath and the world seems to freeze as she pulls her bloodstained gloves off and hands them off to a nurse behind her.

"Well," she says, tightly, "I'm glad you got him to me when you did, Tucker. Surgery was tough, but for the moment, he's stable. Another few minutes and he wouldn't have made it."

Tucker releases the breath he didn't realize he's been holding and looks over to the Reds despite himself. He watches the furious worry fall from Sarge's expression, sees the light, just for an instant, come back into Doc's eyes. Grif and Simmons slump back against the wall in almost perfect sync, Grif letting loose a string something along the lines of _motherfucking innuendo piece of shit stupid asshole_. Beside him, he can almost feel Carolina's entire body loosen as she sinks back into her chair with a sigh.

Doc is the first to ask anything, though his voice is low and tentative. "Is...is he okay—"

"Of fucking course he's okay," Grif snaps, still staring at the ceiling. "You couldn't put him down if you tried. Goddamn, dude, gonna fucking go insane, I swear..."

Grif devolves into mumbling more curses under his breath, and Tucker can't blame him. If Tucker wasn't still trying to process the fact that Donut somehow managed to survive the explosion, he'd probably be doing the same thing.

_The bunker has shattered._

_Tucker finds it with the door caved inward, huge chunks of it missing. It probably didn't do much against the blast. The structure has been broken as easily as if it were glass. Nothing is on the shelves anymore, survival gear strewn across the floor, and the floor itself looks like God took a jackhammer to it for a few hours straight. In places, the ceiling has buckled under its own weight, and metal and cement shards cover every inch of the room._

_There are people in the bunker, who fucking knows how, because it doesn't seem like much of a bunker anymore. Two of them. One conscious, barely, and the other out cold—dead?—with a few large pieces of that door embedded in his chest. It takes Tucker a few horrified seconds to realize that it's Donut down there on the floor, and after that only an instant to figure out that the other one is Locus._

_Locus is in the worst shape Tucker has ever seen him in. His visor has cracked all the way across, the entire upper half missing, and every bit of exposed undersuit seems to have a bad burn or deep metal cut on it somewhere. Not to mention that blood is pouring from a gunshot wound on his shoulder and the crooked metal rod that's been shoved through his leg by the force of the explosion and the merc is too weak even to push up to his knees. If Tucker didn't always feel blinding rage every time the two of them shared a room, he might almost feel pity._

_"Did it work?"_

_Locus's tone is even more like gravel than usual. Tucker, still stunned from the idea that people actually survived that explosion, doesn't respond, and Locus's eyes narrow._

_"Did we save everyone else?" he clarifies, voice weak and yet somehow still unbreakable—_

"—ust calm down, Grif, okay—"

Grif stands abruptly, bringing Tucker back to the present, and in the process his chair goes flying and he looks the offender—Simmons—straight in the face. "NO! Fuck, I'm tired of all this bullshit where all of you keep dying! Call me when someone you guys forcibly attach me to doesn't drag me through a goddamn anxiety hell!"

Grif storms down the hallway without another word, leaving Simmons alone in his foldout chair with a shocked look on his face. His mouth keeps opening and closing, like he's trying to find the right thing to say, not that it would do anything at this point. What was he expecting? Grif snaps fast. Asking him to calm down is like trying to defuse a bomb with a stick of dynamite.

Most people watch him leave. Tucker just runs his thumbs over the sword hilt, waiting for Grey to say something a little less vague and a fuckton more explanatory.

"...To answer your question, Doc, 'okay' is a good word," Grey eventually replies, as soon as she drags her eyes off the hallway where Grif had disappeared. "I said stable, not fit for duty. Once he's come out of the concussion, I can feel a little more confident about his recovery."

"But he's alive," Doc presses.

"Yes. I don't have much time to explain, but all the shrapnel is out and all the particularly gaping wounds are closed, so for now, I think I can go check on the other patient."

Everyone can tell she means Locus. Nobody likes the idea of her treating him, including Grey, but she'd persisted nonetheless. Hippocratic oath or some shit, do no harm, help who you can. Plus he's useful whenever there's something dangerous that nobody in the world seems to want to do. Tucker wishes Locus didn't fall into the category of "unfortunately a human being".

She falls silent, and for a moment, it seems as if she's done talking—then she hums uncomfortably and looks at Tucker.

"We're keeping Donut conscious while he recovers from the concussion, and I haven't been pressing him for details at all, but ever since he woke up, he's just been asking for you."

There's a long pause as everyone in the area turns to look at Tucker. Fuck. Attention is not what he needs right now.

"I don't c..." After reminding himself that everyone's still staring at him, he gulps and corrects his sentence. "You're sure he's asking for me? Not some drug-induced bullshit where he's trying to say something else? Like, _literally anything else_?"

She gestures towards the door in a way that makes it kind of seem like he doesn't have a choice. "You have two minutes before my nurse is allowed to escort you out at scalpel-point."

Grey takes a few steps down the hallway, clearing the traffic, and then breaks into a jog towards what he assumes is Locus's room.

After a moment, Tucker stands. It's as if the world watches him stand. Fuck, this is uncomfortable. He's gotten used to the privacy of his own misery lately, it feels wrong to have people watching him right now. Just plain bad.

He waits by the door silently until the nurse waves him in.

Donut looks...oddly dead, considering that he's not. His eyes are closed, he's very still, there's a lot of blood everywhere and bandages all over his body, an IV drip with all kinds of shit. But the second Tucker walks in, it's like Donut reanimates. His eyes open and his chest rises and he breaths staggeringly, tilting his head towards the doorway.

He's been crying. It's impossible not to see the trails of tears on his cheeks, or the watery red in his eyes.

Tucker moves in closer, to the side of the bed, and...well, he just stands there, really. He didn't ask to come in here. Didn't ask to see up close what Wash caused.

"Hi," Donut sniffles, his voice weak, and Jesus, he's definitely been crying, that one word from him is ragged.

"Uh. Hi—"

"I saw him."

Tucker feels his heart stop.

_Tucker is in the hallways of the base when he hears a scream he recognizes. The mug of coffee falls from his hands and before it can hit the ground Tucker has already burst into the communications room and he's already seen Wash, seen the horror in his eyes, seen just how familiar and unfamiliar he is at the same time and how desperate he looks, how scared. Wash is only this scared after nightmares._

"I just needed you to know." Tears start to pool out of Donut's eyes, and he scrunches them shut, fighting back a sob. "I-I saw him. He didn't take his helmet off but it was him, it was definitely him, Tucker! He recognized me. I _made_ him recognize me. I hugged him and he didn't hug back but he sounded happy, I remember that much, I couldn't forget that if you pounded my head with a battering ram."

_Then Tucker watches Wash collapse, hears his warning, "protect Elodea". And then he watches a different person rise, confused but determined, crafty, with a mission, just before the screen goes dark._

"He didn't know what he was doing," Donut says suddenly, and he reaches for Tucker's hand and grabs one of the fingers tight, like he has to convince him. "I asked him, he didn't know that the EMP he was making could destroy the base, he just wanted to get rid of the suits."

_It is three months ago. It is three months ago and Tucker sees Wash break through the door on the Staff of Charon and for a moment he's ecstatic, until Wash looks at him and tries to kill him because of the suit he wears._

_Wash. Wash, Wash, Wash. All Wash._

"You can't blame him. He was being manipulated, you can't blame him, _please_ don't blame him. I tried to help him, I almost did! He was coming, _willingly_ , until those evil machines in his head took over."

Tucker opens his mouth, intending to say something, but nothing comes out. He blames _someone_ , but for the fucking life of him, he can't decide who. He knows that Wash wasn't responsible for this, knows that he was being manipulated, knows it wasn't his fault. But Wash was still there. Wash was the one who set Elodea to blow. Tucker can't think about Wash anymore without seeing a nuclear explosion shortly after.

Fuck. First Church, now Wash. Why can't Wash just stay gone? Why do the people he cares about always come back from the dead, only for Tucker to lose them again?

"I...I have to go," Tucker mumbles, falling back on the sentence he's said countless times in the past three months. He has to go. Has to get out of this place, has to think, needs _something_ but he doesn't know what. Air? Water? Food? To scream off a cliff? To _jump_ off a cliff?

To go into space and knock some sense into his friend?

The thought comes to him suddenly. Tucker is angry. Just like everyone out in the hallway, he's frustrated, and furious, and he can only take so much of this bullshit before he's gonna blow. And right now what he really wants to do, what he really _needs_ , is to punch Wash in the face and then fucking obliterate Charon.

That's what Tucker is going to do. Instead of sitting around and killing a couple mercs here and there and really not helping much, he's gonna fucking tear Charon apart from the inside out and drag Wash back to reality, and help everyone.

The urgency of the idea pushes him to move. He tries to pull away but Donut has grabbed his entire hand now, and though he's weak, Tucker can feel that he's holding on with all he's got.

"I know that look," Donut says.

Tucker forces himself to look back at Donut. Donut is still crying but there's determination in his eyes, mirrored in his own.

"You're going to go get him, right?"

...


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

…

**_BANG._ **

_NO!!_

_No, no, stop this!_

_They’re…they’re all gone. Everything’s gone—_ _I have to stop. I have to fix this, I have to stop!_

_I have to stop._

_I can stop._

...

_No..._

...

_No. No!_

_No more memories._

_No...no more..._

...

_Ohhh...fuck, what's going on?_

_Where am I?_

...

_Is this...Wash, are you there?_

_Wash?_

...

_...Wash?_

...

_Oh, no. Ohhhhh, oh no._

_I've been talking too much._

_I broke you, didn't I._

_Shit._

_Help me out here, you've gotta wake up, Wash._

_...Wake up._

_Fuck. Wake up, man. I'm serious._

_Why aren't you listening?_

_..._

_...Where is it? Where's everything?_

_That memory was...it was right here, wasn't it?_

_Where did it go?_

_Fuck. Shit, shit shit. This is bad, Wash._

_She did it. We did it._

_I did it. I broke you._ _This is my fault. I saw Niner, and I...I just..._

_...No, no, this can't be it._

_We gotta fix this, man._

_...Can you even hear me?_

_Do you know me?_

_It's me! Epsilon—it's Church! You remember me, don't you?!_

_Come on, Wash. Don't leave me hanging._

_Wash?_

_...David?_

...

It is dark and he's cold and he thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , there is a voice in his head.

He's not really sure. It took him a while to hear it over the silence. Hours. Maybe days. He doesn't know where he is, how long he's been here. How long it's been since he's drawn an even breath that didn't leave a grim taste in his mouth. Maybe it's a voice, maybe it's his imagination, if any of that is left.

But it is dark and he's cold and the harder he listens to the silence, the more he thinks that maybe it's not silence at all. Maybe it's just noise. Words he no longer remembers how to process.

Words like _Wash and David and Niner and Epsilon,_ words he can just barely pick out of the noise, things he doesn't understand, no matter how many times the words bubble through.

He doesn't bother trying to reach out to the voice, to the words, whatever they are. The thought doesn't cross his mind even once. Right when he recognizes a word, it's gone again, buried in the noise, like the voice saying them doesn't have the time or patience to repeat itself, but he doesn't have the energy to try and understand what he hears before it's gone.

He doesn't want to be here. But he doesn't know any other place in the world where he could go, if not here. If there even is a world. Or if it's just this dark metal box.

He should just stay here.

He wishes the noise would just stop and leave him alone. Then maybe this wouldn't feel so bad.

Instead the noise gets louder.

_Fuck, say something! FUCK!_

_This can't be how it ends._

_This isn't how it ends._

_David, you can't just let them destroy you._

_You have to fight!_

_You have to fight._

_I can't do it alone._

_Come ON, man! Anything. Give me ANYTHING!!_

_...Please?_

Stop. He wants it all to stop. He wants to leave, wants to stay. Wants the noise to go away.

It gets louder. And louder.

_...You asshole. I know you can hear me._

_Fuck, man, what is this bullshit?! I thought we made it!_

_I...I thought you made it._

_David, why aren't you answering me?_

Go away. _Please_ , go away. Leave him alone. Let it be quiet.

_You w—you want quiet?!_

_David, I-I'm trying to help you! I have to help you!_

_Please!_

He presses his hands up against his ears. Stop. _Stop._

 _I can't stop!_ _I can't stop, David, no matter what._

_That's the same as giving up._

_I don't want to lose us. We have places we need to go, things we've gotta do, people we've gotta see. And you want me to STOP?_

_No. No, I won't accept that, not while just fucking lying up here._

_There has to be something I c—_

The noise is gone. Just like that. Like the flip of a switch.

Without warning, there's suddenly a freezing lance of pain in the back of his neck. He makes a hurt noise and reaches back—but before he can touch his neck, his hands hit a small metal unit that blocks him from making contact. It's frigid to the touch, impossible to keep his fingers on it for more than a second. He doesn't remember that being there. Doesn't know how it got on.

His fingers trace the shape across his neck, and after a few seconds he realizes that the unit is secured by a thin metal band that goes all the way around his neck and secures at the front. A collar. He fumbles for the release and the collar clicks open, and almost instantly the cold feeling coursing through his body is gone. He holds the collar in his hand for a good two seconds before letting it fall at his feet.

He lowers his hands back to his knees apathetically, squeezing further into the corner he'd found himself in some time ago. He doesn't know how he got there, or what's happening, or why the noise was here and why it disappeared—but at least it's quiet now, and not as cold. The quiet is okay. It's okay. Something is wrong, maybe, he doesn't know what's going on, but it will be okay.

It _will_ be okay.

He buries himself in the sweater he'd found himself in. It's warm, and smooth and _big,_ really big. It's not his, but for some reason, it feels as if it should be.

There is a bright light in the room, suddenly, but it's not from above. The door. The door is open. He hadn't noticed a door.

People come in—three, all in what looks like light armor, white and pristine. None of them are familiar, not even a little. Why are they in armor? What kind of threat is _he_?

"Hold him," one of them snaps, and he can hear it better, it's not like the voice, or the noise. This is real.

Knowing that it's not just a voice in his head, that this is _really_ happening, panic sets in. His heart shoots into his throat and races until he can practically taste his heartbeat. The other two guards are coming closer and he doesn't like it, not at all, it puts a nauseous feeling in his stomach and makes him want to shrink further back into the wall.

One of the guards lays a hand on his shoulder and he lashes out without thinking, pure impulse, and his foot connects with the guard's shin and they make an stifled noise and stumble back a step—

Suddenly there is horrible pain in every inch of his body, sharp and loud and inescapable. He shrieks and collapses onto the ground, hands over his ears, screaming for the pain to stop—and by the time it does, a mere two seconds later, he's already learned his lesson. 

Don't fight. 

The guards come forward again and this time they force him to sit up, holding his arms too tightly for him to move. He looks up and the third person is standing still as if they haven't moved from that spot in years.

The person holds up a small metal box in their hand with a single button on it, and they're just staring at it, not looking at him, disinterested. "I trust you won't try anything else?"

He shakes his head as soon as he hears the question. He doesn't know why he tried in the first place. Don't fight, don't fight. Pain, it's too loud. Don't fight.

"Good." The person turns to look at him, and even though there's a helmet between them, he can feel the sharpness of the gaze. "Codename. Now."

Codename? What does that mean? _What_ codename?

He must wait too long to answer, because the person nods almost imperceptibly and one of the guards twists his wrist back a little too far, enough to make him yelp in pain.

"You know, most of the people here are believers in psychological torture above all," the person says as the guard releases him. Personally I find that physical coercion is often far more satisfying to watch. Make me wait again for your answer and I'll be forced to demonstrate. Tell me your codename."

"I-I don't know," he stammers.

"I won't ask again."

"I don't know!"

"What about your full name? Your birthday? Which AI were you originally assigned to?"

"I don't, I don't—"

"Where are you?"

"I—"

"I'll make it easier, since apparently even your location's a challenge. What _do_  you remember?"

He doesn't know. He doesn't know. There's nothing. There are words, there are things, but nothing is connected and he just doesn't know. He doesn't know how to convey that gap in his knowledge to this person so they can just leave him alone, and the panic doesn't have to feel so raw in his throat and he can stay in the quiet forever but he just doesn't know. Right now all he can say is _"I don't know"_ , over and over again, unsure of if it will ever stick.

"I don't know," he breathes, and it comes out somewhere between a whimper and a sob that he can't hold in.

"So you expect me to believe that you have no clue. None. No idea of why you're here right now, or why I'm talking to you."

He shakes his head rapidly and the person follows the movement.

The person sighs and glances over their shoulder, out the door. "I see. Well, no harm in sedating him once again—just to be sure none of Kittinger's antics stick before we repair the Icarus system. Nurse?"

Someone else enters the room with a small syringe in hand and he can feel every hair on his body stand on end. It's not good, it can't be good. What's happening? What's going on? Why is he here?

The person puts a hand up to the side of their helmet as the nurse moves closer. "ICARUS log, night one. Phase two has been successfully implemented—there's nothing left. We'll have him ready to go in no time."

Something in his head is screaming that he needs to run but the guards are there—and even if they weren't, his fear has him frozen in place. His heart is running in overtime and every muscle is tight and stuck and scared and he's helpless as the nurse forces his head to the side and pushes the syringe into his neck and just like that he's gone.

...

He doesn't wake up for a long while.

For that indeterminate time, he's adrift somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness, a kind of half-aware limbo. There are flashes of moments, barely, that break through the darkness surrounding him. Colors mostly. Bright and painful, dull and comforting, a rainbow of raw emotions that are gone the second they arrive.

He thinks he says things. He doesn't know what. Mumbles. Words he barely recognizes. He never hears a response—nothing to prove he's actually said a word.

He can't feel anything. No heat, cold, not even a breeze. There's just nothing.

And for a while, it feels like he's nothing too.

...

He wakes sharply from a nightmare, a scream still tangled in his throat as he shoots upright. Everything is pitch black, dark. It's cold again. He can feel the cold, can feel _things_ —the wires tangled with his hair, the breathing tube chafing against his throat, needles aching in his veins, gloved hands against his skin as they tug him down, muffled, hurried voices—but there is nothing around him, just blackness.

He doesn't remember the nightmare. Why doesn't he remember the nightmare? 

The hands pull harder and force him back down against the table, and he can feel the tightness of restraints around his wrists and ankles—had he been kicking? He doesn't know. He can't tell. All there is is darkness and panic. Even restrained, his fingers still fumble across the surface under him, trying to find support and failing. His breathing is heavy, ragged, interwoven with sobs. Whatever he dreamt, it was bad.

_"—s not supposed to be awake yet, get Ola in here n—"_

He can't see. His eyes are blinking, rapidly, but nothing. Everything is still black, his eyes are open. Where is everything? What's going on?

Why can't he see?

 _"—critical_ _malfunction, necessitates immedia—"_

Malfunction. Something's wrong. Horribly wrong.

_Why can't he see?_

His pulse pounds in his ears, he can't control his breathing if he tried. What did they do? He can't see. Why can't he see?

_"—eed to put him under—"_

No. Not that, anything but that. Not another nightmare, _please—_ but it's too late. He can already feel lethargy ripping through his system, shutting down everything it touches, and before he can try to fight it he's gone again.

...

When he wakes up this time, it's slow, groggy. The first thing he realizes is that he can see. But it's wrong. Colors are in the wrong places. He can't move from where he is, so he stares up at the ceiling—only there's green and purple and orange and blue and red and black and white overlaid in discordant streaks across his vision, and if he looks somewhere else, the streaks move with him, and silent static is everywhere, and he can barely piece together of any of the scattered visual cues he's getting.

There are words, small, barely visible, scrolling down along the right side of his field of view, but they're moving so fast he can't make sense of a thing.

He tries to speak but his throat is raw, it hurts just to drag in a breath. He wants to ask how. Why. What. He wants to know what's happening to him.

He fades out of consciousness before he can form a word.

...

This time, he wakes up as if nothing happened.

When his eyes open, he can see normally. Like there was no darkness, no flashing colors, no static. Just normal. 

He feels the surface underneath him. Cold. Smooth. An operating table. They were doing something, weren't they? They said there was a malfunction, or a problem, or...something.

He tries to move and is honestly surprised to find that he can. Wasn't he restrained? Or something. He doesn't know. Everything is a jumble. His hands move over his clothes, surprised by how smooth the cloth is against his skin—and when he glances up, he sees that he's wearing pale blue scrubs. Hospital.

He sits up silently, massaging his wrists, and after a moment he slides off the edge of the table onto his bare feet. Something feels wrong. Not horribly. He just feels like something is off. He doesn't recognize this room. It's big. Bigger than the last room he was in, anyway. There's a small cot built into the wall, a rudimentary shower and toilet, a small faucet, and a door. What kind of room is this?

He turns back to the operating table and notices a small metal sheet sticking out from the side of it. On it is a set of thin clothes that look remarkably comfortable in comparison to the scrubs. They wouldn't be there if they weren't for him, right?

His head still feels groggy, and he still can't avoid the feeling that something's wrong, but he ignores it as best as possible and changes silently. 

He can't remember.

The realization hits him suddenly, an icy chill in his veins that makes him stop halfway through pulling one of his sleeves on. He doesn't know _anything_ about himself. His name, his family, his past. Why he's here. He's not even sure what he looks like.

That last part is what really scares him. _He doesn't know what he looks like._ He couldn't pick his own face out of a crowd.

Frantically, he looks for something that might have a reflection of some kind, anything. There's a long window on one wall of this room, connecting to what looks like a smaller, adjacent room, but the glass has no easily visible reflection.

He stares at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. Strong, he can tell that much. Scarred. Gosh, that's a lot of scars. Covered in freckles. Okay. Freckles. He has freckles. It's better than nothing.

He reaches for his hair and runs his fingers through the short length over and over. Short. Straight, almost nearly buzzed on the sides, with a little extra poof at the top. He doesn't know what color. What color is his hair? What about his eyes? How does he not know this?

_What the fuck is going on?_

Overwhelmed isn't strong enough to describe what he's feeling. He knows enough to know that this isn't right. _Everyone_ knows what they look like. Everyone knows their names. Everyone knows what makes up who they are. They can describe themselves. 

He has _nothing_. No recollection of his appearance. No name. No idea what he's been doing all his life. Can't describe himself if he tried.

He doesn't know who he is.

It's too much. It's too much.

The world spins like the floor has been yanked out from under him. He loses his balance and catches himself against the table before he can fall, suddenly acutely aware of his inability to breathe. He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. What is he _doing_ here?!

It's too much. It's too—

There's a loud, electronic buzz all of a sudden that rings through the room, and he practically jumps at the suddenness of the noise. That...that's an intercom, right? Why is there a speaker system here?

 _"Don't be alarmed,"_ a voice says over the system.  _"I know you're scared, but trust me. I am not here to hurt you. I'm simply here to talk."_

His attention is drawn to a small grate on the ceiling. A speaker. It's coming from there—

Something burns behind his eyes for a second and he yelps in surprise, pressing his palms against his eyes to drown out the pain. Fuck, that stings.

When he pulls his hands back and opens his eyes, he can see words.

 

_**voice identified** _

_**sci officer LOCHLEY, MARISSA R.** _

_**head of project icarus** _

_**FRIENDLY** _

 

It startles him, enough to make him grab tightly onto the corners of the table again. The words are small but prominent, just waiting there in the corner of his vision. Easily readable. How...? His mouth moves to form a question, but he's not really sure what to ask. That can't be natural. Something this place did caused that.

 _"There, you see?"_ the voice says confidently. It knows about the words. _"Nothing to worry about. Now, I'm coming in._ _I'm alone and unarmed. Do you understand? There's no need to be afraid. You know me._ _"_

He almost laughs. No he doesn't. He doesn't know that voice—doesn't know _anything,_ much less the origin of a random voice asking him to trust it.

...But if he doesn't know it, why did those words say that it was friendly?

Maybe he _does_ know it after all.

This is uncomfortable, to put it mildly. He's not sure whether he should relax or if he should be planning some sort of escape from wherever the fuck he is. He doesn't know what this person wants, if they're here to help him—and because of that, he's just stuck standing here, waiting to find out.

He looks towards the window just in time to see a door within that other room open, and in comes a fairly inconspicuous woman, her hands raised non-threateningly. Nothing really stands out about her at first. She's the first person he's seen who isn't in any overly ridiculous armor, instead wearing a simple white lab coat.

 

_**sci officer LOCHLEY, MARISSA R.** _

_**head of project icarus** _

_**FRIENDLY** _

 

There it is again. Friendly. It keeps saying she's friendly.

He looks up at her and meets her sharp eyes, which don't seem very friendly at all. They're digging into his skull just by staring at him.

She stops at a chair about halfway through the room and lowers her hands onto the back of the chair, drumming her nails against the cushions. For a moment, the two of them are still, not saying anything, not doing anything. He doesn't like the way she's looking at him.

She reaches forward and grabs a small headset, putting it in place over her pin-straight hair. Everything about her seems sharp. Not at all friendly.

Then she smiles lightly, and a little bit of that sharpness goes away.

_"Hello."_

Her voice comes in over the speakers again, the same as before. 

There's silence between them, and after a few moments, she gives him an expectant look with a raised eyebrow. _"I know you can speak."_

Another silence. She wants a response.

"Hey," he mumbles back. His voice sounds weird. He's not really used to it yet.

 _"There, that's better. It's good to see you again."_ She smirks for a second, then moves the chair out of her way. _"Well, I've actually seen you plenty over the last few months, but regardless. It's good to see you on your feet."_

He doesn't say anything. He's still not sure if he can trust her—though, it's weird. There's a warm tone in her voice that doesn't sound as unfriendly as the rest of her looks. She doesn't sound too bad.

 _"Relax, Agent Washington,"_ she says. _"I'm not here to hurt you. I'm simply here to catch you up on what you're missing. I'll ask you not to interrupt me, this will be more effective that way."_

_Agent Washington._

He doesn't really hear anything after that. Is that supposed to be his name? What kind of a name is that? It doesn't sound right. It's a mouthful, too much, too long. There's not even a first name. _Agent_ isn't a name.

"Washington," he echoes dully, cutting off the first part. It sounds weird. He doesn't like it.

 _"...You don't remember it. That's quite alright, I didn't expect you to. You were almost fatally wounded before we found you."_ She pauses, and even though he's looking down now, he can feel her staring. _"Out of pure curiosity, what can you tell me about yourself, if anything?"_

He looks around the room, as if for some clue, finding nothing. His memory is a blank slate. "I-I don't remember," he mutters, wringing his wrists.

_"Again, that's alright. Like I said, you were badly injured on your last assignment. As a result, your memory was compro—"_

"Assignment?" The question just kind of slips out, propelled by curiosity.

She seems almost surprised that he interrupted, but doesn't look too upset and goes along with it. _"Yes. Almost two months ago, you and your pilot were sent on a mission to destroy an insurgent base that stole some of our more experimental technology. You were successful in your goal, but both of you were badly injured in the process. Your pilot died to bring you home, and even so, we barely managed to save you."_

He doesn't know how to respond to that. The thought of a mission like that leaves a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Pilots, missions, insurgents. Dying. It all sounds awfully military. Was he military, is that what this is? Was he a soldier?

It would explain the scars.

"I..." He bites his lip. "I don't understand what happened."

 _"During the assignment, your neural implants experienced a severe_ _malfunction. We managed to repair them through the surgeries and rewiring you just underwent, but not before one of the AI units wiped your memory."_

"Neural implants?"

She reaches for the back of her neck and taps it a couple times. _"Right there."_

He reaches back to touch the same spot on his skin and instantly recoils when his fingers touch metal. That shouldn't be there, should it?

After looking at her for reassurance that it's alright, he tries again, this time moving his entire palm over it. It's smooth. He thinks he can feel a little slit in it, maybe to put something inside, but other than that, it's just smooth, cold metal.

 _"What you're feeling is merely the neural interface. In reality, the implants themselves are far more extensive. They wire your brain to allow you to interact with artificial intelligence—though, due to their intricacy, any minor injury to your implants can have severe mental repercussions. On your assignment, one_ _of the AIs you were working with was severely damaged and ended up erasing your memories."_

His fingers trace the seam between his skin and the interface. She's talking about a malfunction. That's what one of the doctors said, that he had some sort of malfunction. That must be what they meant. That must be why he can't remember anything about himself. 

...Pretty big malfunction. "That doesn't seem like the smartest move."

Lochley shrugs.  _"Perhaps. But the ability to use AI on a whim to your benefit has been instrumental in your success thus far. They allow you access to your armor controls, increased weapon proficiency, heightened intelligence—y_ _ou wouldn't be here without them. The AI are instrumental in who you are."_

His hand falls to his side. Armor, weapons. He was definitely a soldier. "So...what, my entire brain is wired with these, these—"

_"Neural implants."_

"—yeah, those. All so I can talk to computers?"

She smirks again, but it's not quite as friendly. _"Not every computer. Just the AI units we've given you access to, and the related technology. I don't think it's wise to activate any of them until you've regained some of your memory, but once you're feeling more at ease, I'll gladly demonstrate."_

Lochley falls silent for a moment.

 _"I know you're confused_ _,"_ she says after a beat. _"_ _Your memories were taken from you, wrongfully, unintentionally, and I can't apologize sincerely enough. I can imagine that waking up in a holding cell after multiple surgeries with no idea who you are can come as a shock. But rest assured, I am here to help you, and as long as you cooperate with us, I know we'll get you back to how you were before."_

So she's here to help him, to get his memories back. At least there's someone who can help him. It's better than nothing.

_"I'm going to come in now, if that's alright—I have some things to give you. They should help remind you of what you're missing."_

He doesn't reply, and she must take that as a yes, because she takes the headset off and moves towards the door connecting this room and the next. When it swings open, he can see that she's carrying multiple things in her hands.

"I realize this room isn't the most hospitable place to carry out a conversation. We weren't sure if you'd be hostile when you awoke, so the holding cell was necessary."

Holding cell. What, like a prisoner? That seems like overkill for someone who can't even remember his name. And now that he thinks about it, there had been armed guards before. They thought he was hostile too, which is why they tried to hold him back, why they restrained him.

The question feels weird when it leaves his mouth. Kind of stupid, actually. "Am I dangerous?"

If he's reading her right, she almost looks a little annoyed.

"You're...for the time being, we can say you're effective." Her words are clipped short. "It's best we avoid this subject and other such moral dilemmas until you've recovered further."

But he still wants to know. He knows he was a soldier, or something along those lines, but he doesn't know where he stands. He wants to know what kind of situation this is.

Something tells him it's not a good idea to press it, but he's too curious. "I, uh—"

"Agent Washington, we will discuss this later." Her smile suddenly seems fake. 

"But I'm just—"

He immediately knows that saying that was a mistake, because almost immediately, the easy smile falls away from her face, and without warning everything is sharp and unfriendly and dangerous.

Lochley takes a single small step forward and he can almost feel the force of the danger radiating off of her. _Mistake, mistake, mistake,_ his mind screams. He presses back against the table unintentionally, suddenly just as panicked as he was when the guards came into the last cell he was in, but trying hard not to show it.

She places the items down on the floor beside her and then stands straight up, never taking her eyes off his.

"Allow me to remind you of something _crucial_ , Agent Washington," she says, crisply, yet softly. "You are here aboard the Staff of Charon, Charon Industries' flagship and lead experimental center, as the sole test subject in this project. In order to join our team, you signed over your freedom and agreed to cooperate with us, _without_ fail. Everything that has happened to you so far has come from events that you have consented to. Now, I suggest you try very hard to remember that contract, because I can assure you that, regardless of your memory of it, your agreement to obey me is very much real."

She sighs tightly, almost as if she's done, but he doesn't move, instead trying to process this new information while also trying not to crumple under the intensity of her glare. Did he actually do that? Sign himself over to Lochley, to this Charon company? Give them everything he had?

He wants to ask about the contract but he's too afraid of what she might do if he does. All he can do is listen as she stares him down.

"Would you like my answer to your question? You're dangerous when you want to be. But my question for you is, _do_ you want to be dangerous? Because I am here to return you to the person you were, and frankly, if you don't want _my_ help, I may have to ask my colleagues to take over. You remember Ola, I'm sure, the first person who spoke to you? Unlike me, he doesn't have your best interests in mind. His methods are far more physical than mine will ever be, and he just happens to be next in command to the project. And if he sees you as dangerous? You won't like what he does. I may be here to help you, but I can promise you this, Washington—if you break our contract, there will be consequences."

When she steps back and picks up the items like nothing happened, he suddenly realizes that he'd forgotten to breathe throughout the entirety of her tirade. Her threats remind him too much of the person from the cell, _Ola_ , the one who'd done whatever it was back in the cell that had hurt so bad, the reason he'd cooperated with him. Anything but that again. He'll do anything to keep that freak away from him.

Some part of him thinks that Lochley knows that. If he doesn't listen to her, she'll turn him over to Ola in a heartbeat.

At the very least, she doesn't seem as angry anymore. Hopefully she won't get that intense again. After giving him a mildly wary glance, Lochley moves around him and places everything on that little shelf sticking out from the operating table.

Then she picks up a large bundle of cloth that he instantly recognizes. It's the only thing he _has_  recognized since he woke up—and the feelings racing through his body when he sees it are so intense, all memories of Lochley's threat fall away.  

"I'm sure you remember this." When she holds up the sweater for him, it takes every ounce of his willpower not to snatch it from her hands. "This belonged to one of our shared former associates. After his...unfortunate death, he made sure we would give it to you. You and he were close."

She holds it out and he immediately takes it, feeling through the fabric in his fingers. It's soft, just like it was before. Warm. Huge. The closeness doesn't come as a surprise to him. If he felt this comfortable with just the sweater, imagine how good he must've felt with the owner.

He shifts it a little more and comes across a small logo stitched into the cloth. Two letters.  _M_ and _E._

"What was his name?" he asks, his voice coming out softer than he expected.

"He went by Agent Maine."

Maine. ME, like the state of Maine. Maine. Cool name. Must've been a big guy, to have such a big sweater.

Wonder how he died, a big guy like that.

And with such a cool name, too.

 _Way_ cooler than Washington.

"You're distracted," Lochley says suddenly.

"No, I just—" He shakes his head. _God,_ he doesn't like that name. "You said my name is...it's Agent Washington, right?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Is that...is that what  _everyone_  calls me?"

For a brief second, he thinks he can see a small smile on her face, but she looks away before he can really catch it. "Not entirely. From what I know of your more personal past, your friends call you Wash."

Wash. Wwwwwash. Wash. Wash is better. 

Still not a real name, but better.

He pulls the sweater on over his clothes—which he now figures are probably military fatigues—and tries to put together what he knows in this moment. His name is Agent Washington. His friends call him Wash. He has freckles, scars. He is a soldier. He has a contract with Lochley's people, they're called Charon Industries. He's going to remember.

His name is Agent Washington. His friends call him Wash. 

 _She_ doesn't call him Wash.

As if hearing him say that out loud, her mild smile disappears. "We are associates. As such, I prefer to keep things professional. Washington is informal enough. And as for me, I would expect you to address me as you would any superior officer."

She reaches for the other items, pulling out a small slip of paper and holding it out for him. "Your access codes. Due to your status in the project, information access has been heavily restricted, but these codes will grant you access to any facility on the ship that the mercenaries on board are allowed to use."

Wash takes the slip of paper, reads over the codes a couple of times, and then tucks it in his pocket. He'll try to remember those, at least. They seem important.

"And lastly, this." Lochley picks up a small datapad. "Your information access may be limited, but this should suffice. Here you can find everything we have on you. Background, training, military service. Anything you need to remember would be on here. Your codes won't work on any other device, however, so I highly recommend not losing this one."

When she holds it out, he takes it and stares down at the smooth surface. It's still off, and the surface is reflective enough for him to see his face. He's not sure what he expected, but he definitely didn't think he'd look so... _tired_. He looks like he's never slept a day in his life. What happened to make him look like that?

At least the freckles are consistent.

So are the scars, but he doesn't really want to think about that.

"I also feel obligated to explain your ocular implants, though you can certainly read up on them on your own time. The words you've been seeing? They're another tool, designed to help you remember your associates here. I trust they'll be very useful in the future." Lochley claps her hands together. "That's all I have for you. Hopefully these items will make your recovery easier."

Wash activates the pad and watches as it boots up, staring at the little buffering animation in the corner. It's all here. Everything about who he is.

He's going to remember.

"I'd say we're about done here, no? If you're ready, I'll take you to your quarters."

"My...what, _my_ quarters?"

In response to that, she raises an eyebrow. "Would you rather stay here?"

"No, no, I just didn't—"

"We're not _monsters_ , Washington. You'll be staying with the rest of the mercenaries on the first floor. Among your...let's call them peers. Now, shall we go?"

What choice does he have?

Wash grips tighter to the datapad as Lochley moves towards the other door in this room, the one that doesn't connect to the other room. She keys it open and then holds it for him, motioning for him to follow. After a short moment, he does.

The hallway seems a little busy to him. He expected it to be empty, but there are people bustling around, all of them in either white labcoats or assorted suits of armor. A motley crowd of people, to be sure—

The words appear suddenly in his vision again, and surprised by the sudden influx of information, Wash stops walking and just stares. Dozens and dozens of names, a new one every second, all labeling each of the people he sees. The word _friendly_ keeps popping up again and again. Friendly. Friendly. Everyone's friendly.

Except not a single one of them seems legitimately friendly.

When he snaps back to focus, Lochley has already started down towards one end of the hallway. Wash does his best to ignore the people around him and follows after her. It feels like they're all staring at him. He can almost feel the glares he's getting from some of the people in armor—and with those out of armor, the assorted unfriendly looks are even more obvious.

He follows Lochley silently through the network of hallways until the crowd clears up more and they reach a large elevator. This ship is far bigger than he realized—in fact, it's massive. The hallways are wide enough to fit a large number of people shoulder-to-shoulder, and from what he can tell, the ship stretches off in all directions far further than he can see. There's almost a constant humming of machinery everywhere, it's kind of nice. Comfortable.

He wonders how well he knew this ship before he lost his memory. Did he like it then too? He wants to check the datapad so badly, but he's fairly certain that doing it while walking would be a mistake. He'll wait until he gets to his quarters.

They go down a few floors in the elevator, the humming of the ship getting louder with every floor they pass, until they reach what must be their destination because the doors open and Lochley walks out. It's louder here. Not just from the ship. He can hear a lot of people talking, yelling. Nobody's out in the hallway, though. He can hear all of this through the walls.

They walk for another few minutes, through another maze of hallways, until Lochley finally stops at a nondescript door. She knocks twice on the door, quietly.

"Fuck, _what_?" someone groans back, to his uneasy surprise. Wash didn't think anyone else would be in whatever room he was assigned to.

 

**_voice identified_ **

**_former pvt CHAMPLIN, KYLE T._ **

**_alias: RINGER_ **

**_HOSTILE_ **

 

...Fuck.

For someone who'd been talking about how incredibly fragile Wash's implant technology is, Lochley doesn't seem at all concerned by the word. "Private Champlin, this is Science Officer Lochley," she says. "I strongly suggest you open up."

There's a pause for a couple seconds, and Wash's brain is screaming for him to run,  _hostile_ playing over and over in his head like an alarm.

Then the door opens, and in that doorway is a man that Wash doesn't recognize.

"Alright, Officer, what do you w..."

But Wash can tell that, the second the man sees him, _he_ recognizes Wash.

And instantly every muscle in the man's body is wound tight and there's a searing hate in his eyes and before Wash has a moment to think the datapad flies from his hands and he's been tackled to the ground.

"Mother _FUCKER!"_

Wash lets out a shout as his head slams down against the floor, and he can feel hands tight around his neck—and almost immediately something clicks in his mind and some sort of instinct kicks in, literally, as he kicks outward as hard as he can right into the man's leg. He roars and stumbles back, and Wash gasps for air in the instants he has and gets up on one knee, but he's barely started to stand when the man jumps at him again and slams a fist against the side of his head. For an instant, Wash sees static, but it disappears fast enough for him to dodge the next punch and somehow just barely get out of the way of the blow after that.

The man stops for a split second to catch his breath and Wash immediately takes the opening, lunging forward and slamming both his feet into the man's chest and sending him flying into the wall. The both of them hit the floor at almost the exact same time, panting heavily, staring at each other with varying levels of confusion and distaste.

Wash pulls himself off his back and scrambles backwards towards Lochley, unable to control whatever ridiculous levels of adrenaline have just taken over his system. His head is throbbing from the impact, his neck feels sore. Whatever hate this guy feels for Wash must be rubbing off on him, or something, because Wash certainly didn't expect to just instinctively know how to fight like that.

"Glad to see you've gotten that out of your system, soldier," Lochley says dryly. "Agent Washington, I'd like you to meet Kyle Champlin. As I'm sure you can see, the two of you have a history. You will be sharing quarters for the foreseeable future."

"Like hell," Wash mutters, around the same time as Champlin says "bullshit".

Champlin immediately starts to get back on his feet with a growl but Lochley cuts him off with a glare. "I let it go once. Don't make the same mistake again."

"What the fuck is this _asshole_ doing here?!" Champlin practically spits.

"Agent Washington needed a place to stay," Lochley replies, unfazed. "And seeing as your last roommate was killed in the field a few weeks ago, I figured it was a good use of empty space."

Champlin glares again at Wash, so obviously restraining himself from running over and strangling him to death. Hostile. It _had_  to be the only hostile. Wash returns the glare, but underneath it, he just wants to know what the fuck is going on, or what he did to deserve any of this.

The merc looks back to Lochley. "You _know_ I'll kill him if I have to stay in the same room with him. You can't be that stupid. How much money did you pour into this guy's fucking brain, half a billion or something? You _must_ know that it's all fucked if he's anywhere near me."

"Of course. Which is why, should anything happen to him, I will be holding you personally responsible. I'm sure you know what happens to anyone who tampers with my projects."

Something shifts in Champlin's expression, almost imperceptibly, like a layer of armor just fades away.

"Excellent," Lochley croons. "I'm glad we're on the same page. Washington, you can get up now. I'm sure everything will be fine."

After checking to make sure Champlin isn't getting into position to murder him, Wash gets to his feet and picks up his datapad. Champlin follows the movement like he's plotting out the perfect throwing trajectory of a knife that will slit Wash's throat.

Champlin stands slowly, fists clenched, his entire body the definition of the word hostile _._  This _has_ to be some sort of fucking test. There's no way she expects this to go well.

"For now, Washington," Lochley says, "I recommend you acquaint yourself with the information on your datapad before you return to your usual routine. I will be in touch with you."

She nods at Champlin. "If I get in touch with you, you should have good reason to be worried."

Then Lochley walks away and Wash is stuck with this fucking psychopath.

The second Lochley walks out of view, Champlin looks at him with another murderous glare—but doesn't make a move. Apparently, Wash isn't the only one afraid of Lochley's wrath.

"Bottom bunk," he says suddenly.

"What—"

"I'm not going to fucking repeat myself for _you_. In fact, how about this? You can just fuck off, never talk to me, don't even breathe in my direction for however long I end up stuck with you. And if you call me 'Kyle' or 'Champlin' or anything that so much as  _implies_ you might actually know anything about me, I swear to god I don't give a shit what that bitch will do to me when I stab you in the face."

There's silence for a second, and Wash can feel the anger and annoyance already building behind his eyes.

"... _Sure_ ," Wash replies, reveling in just how brutally sarcastic he sounds. He's not quite sure where it came from, but he _loves_ it. "I guess I'll call you 'that douchebag'. Really complements your eyes."

Champlin—because _fuck him_ —glares at him again and says, "It's Ringer. Call me anything else and see what happens."

Ringer. Right, that had shown up in his data stuff. Wash tries to turn down the sarcasm but it's too fun. "As in, a dead ringer for a douchebag?"

Champlin— _Ringer_ —doesn't reply, instead turning back towards the room and going in. After a moment, Wash follows. It's small. There's literally a bunk bed with two bunks shoved against the wall, a small table jutting out of the opposite wall, and two small stools, and that's it. There's barely any space to maneuver.

Except somehow, Ringer has already maneuvered his way to the top bunk, his face buried in his own datapad. There are few personal belongings here, if anything. Some clothes, all military fatigues. Guns, a decent number of them, all propped up against the wall.

Right. Bottom bunk.

Wash makes his way to his bed and sits down on it, leaning back against the wall. This is it. He can add half a bunk bed to the possessions he currently has to his name.

Speaking of which. He turns on the datapad, and after a moment of staring at the lit screen, retrieves his code sheet from his pocket. He enters it correctly on the second try.

Immediately, over a dozen folders appear onscreen, all with different names. _Psychological assessment. Physical assessment. Early life. Army career. The Great War. PFL. Chorus. ICARUS._

A single link labeled,  _Personnel file._

That's where he should start.

Wash opens the link and a long file opens up, pages and pages. The first page has a line of text that's been marked out in black, followed immediately by the words, _Personnel file._ Same as the link.

Here goes nothing.

Not at all sure what he's going to find, Wash scrolls down to the next page and starts to read.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third arc, here we go.
> 
> I'm back! Thanks to everyone who somehow didn't give this story up while I was recovering/graduating high school. Man, what a month. I'll try to be more on time with upcoming stuff, but expect weekly, maybe every other week updates?
> 
> Seeya~


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

…

His life story starts a little something like this.

 

_[REDACTED]_ **_Personnel File_ **

_**As compiled from the preliminary analyses of Counselor Aiden Price** _

_Updated by Science Officer Marissa Lochley_

****

**_NAME:_  ** _[REDACTED]_

_**ALIAS: Agent Washington** (occasionally shortened to Washington or Wash by his peers)_

**_STATUS: UNSC Corporal until_** _[REDACTED]_ **_, Freelancer until_  ** _[REDACTED]_ _**,** Charon mercenary until _ _[REDACTED], currently under ward of Project Icarus_

_**AGE:** [REDACTED] 32 **, born**_ _[REDACTED]_ **_, assumed KIA on_ ** _[REDACTED]_

_**APPEARANCE: Pale skin, short blonde hair, copious freckles, grey-blue eyes. Abundant scarring, particularly from gunshot and knife wounds. Most notably is a single bullet entry scar in the small of his back,** followed by a few large plasma blade burns across the torso. Details can be found on page 27. On a more personal note, you can always recognize him by the fact that he's the most tired-looking person in any room._

_**RELATIONSHIPS:**_ _[REDACTED] Father_ _[REDACTED]_ _, KIA on_ _[REDACTED]. Mother_ _[REDACTED]_ _and two sisters_ _[REDACTED]_ _, location unknown._

_**MEDICAL CONDITION(S):**_ _[REDACTED]_ _N/A_

**_PHYSICAL ASSESSMENT: Jack-of-all-trades. Very well-versed in many areas of combat, strategy, technology. He's proven useful time and time again in rough situations, though, in terms of excellence in any one field, leaves much to be desired._** _[REDACTED] Throughout his involvement with Charon, however, he has excelled in every sense of the word. He has proven an enormous asset in the field and has easily mastered the use of his AI. I expect great things from him._

_**PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT:**_ _[REDACTED] **Subject once described himself as having a "long memory". He seems unlikely to let go of anything that has caused him anguish in the past.**_ _[REDACTED] Serious, skeptical. Easy to anger. Devoted. Convinced of what he's doing, which is good for us, because if he wasn't, Charon would be in ashes. However, he's been having trouble fighting his personal demons for years, ever since the Epsilon incident. Clearly some form of PTSD after what PFL did to him. He'd_ _been coming to me about nightmares for weeks, something that I suspect he's been struggling with for much longer than that. He wrings his wrists a lot when he's agitated, runs his hands through his hair too. After the Epsilon incident, he was noted to have shown several signs of severe emotional trauma—understandably, of course. We have done all we can on our end to help, but frankly, losing all memories of it has solved the problem for us. Further details on the AI can be found in the PFL and ICARUS folders._

_**NOTES:**_ _[REDACTED]_

The rest of the page, the bottom third of it, is blank.

Wash reads it over again twice. Five times. Ten. Not enough to actually understand anything he reads. But enough for it to sink in that his life story is very, _very_ fucked up. 

He leans back against the wall on his bunk and puts the datapad down on the mattress in front of him, trying to figure out what to do with his hands to stop him from rubbing his wrists raw. He's anxious. That was in the file too. There were things in there he can't deny, can't pretend are just lies. He _does_  want to wring his wrists, badly. He _has_  freckles. Scars too. And apparently he's not half bad at combat.

...He runs his hands through his hair too? Was that it?

He looks at his hands curiously for a moment, then tries, tentatively combing his fingers through the waves at first, then a little faster. _Oh._ Oh, that feels good. He likes that. That part has to be right.

But everything else? Places, things he's never heard of? Analyses of his personality that he has yet to verify? That's just a jumble of words that he can barely believe.

Maybe he can put it together somehow. He tries to put it into his own words, the mess he's just read. He used to be in the military. Then something happened and he became a...what, what was that word— _freelancer._ A Freelancer. Capitalized. Not like a normal guy who does freelance stuff. Someone special. And then something else happened—he was assumed KIA? Some sort of incident with something called Epsilon? Or was that not the order of events? But whatever the case, he ended up with Lochley's group, and eventually ended up here.

Right?

He groans, a low sound in his throat that honestly hurts a little. All this has done is raise more questions. And then, as if the information itself isn't hard enough to understand, _then_ there's the gaps. Redacted, redacted, redacted. Everything that should probably be a date, everything that should probably be a name, whole paragraphs, all erased by black boxes. 

What a way to start, huh? He'd been hoping there'd be answers on here. Something concrete. Not black boxes and half-complete cryptic comments. But if he looks to the other files for explanation, something tells him that he'll just get even more confused. Better to look at what's here in order, and fill in the gaps as he goes.

Wash flips through some of the next pages. Injury reports with sketches, explaining some of his scars. Some of them are blacked out completely. A couple are nothing, but he skims through regardless. A small cut on his shoulder, shrapnel. The weird mark across his nose and under his eye—helmet visor shattered. Training accidents. A couple stupid injuries, listed as casualties of drunken brawls. He's honestly not surprised. If his life was that shitty, he probably drank whenever he had the chance. 

But then the reports get worse. A wide burn scar just above his waist and another on winding down around his neck _and_ a bunch of nasty-looking scars along his abdomen and arms—all of them marked under the same event as 'torture'. Just reading that one word makes him queasy. He reads the full description on this one.

 

**_WA ME CT, scouting mission on_** _[REDACTED] **to infiltrate**_ _[REDACTED]._ _ **Mission failed when CT triggered alarms. WA held captive of**_ _[REDACTED]_ _**for two weeks, tortured for information on PFL operations. Jailor used an industrial-grade gas blowtorch and serrated knives to inflict the wounds, but an unauthorized rescue operation spearheaded by ME and CT managed to save WA before any further damage could be done. ME and CT demoted a rank as punishment for their unauthorized rescue, WA promoted for not revealing critical PFL secrets. Recovery time: three weeks, required counseling for another three weeks afterwards.** _

 

His hand immediately goes to his torso, pressing against the cloth between him and where the burn scar should be. That escalated quickly. From bar fights to torture. He did that for this group, for PFL? He must've been pretty devoted to them.

Wash lifts the corner of his shirt high enough to see the scarring. It's faded, but he can still see the edges where regular skin fades to pinkish scar tissue.

_ME and CT_. Maine and, if states are the theme, Connecticut. Maine and Connecticut. His teammates, who saved him. Why were his teammates punished for saving him?

And why didn't this PFL  _authorize_ saving him in the first place?

That leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, and he skips to the next page. More injuries. Another mission. Shot through the leg in a full-out firefight. Apparently Maine and Connecticut—the same ones, again—dragged him out after he'd taken fire for some other soldier named Idaho. They got scolded again.

Another torture one. Not as bad as the first. Apparently he escaped that one on his own.

Shot in the back—the analysis talked about that one. Shot by SD, what's SD—South Dakota. Shot by his partner in the back. The report says he was out of commission for nearly a month before he got back into the field.

The next pages are also injury reports—but the format is different, the handwriting not as messy. It must be from when he switched from working with PFL to working with Lochley. There aren't any trivial injuries here, no bar fights. Gunshots, explosion burns, stab wounds, things like that. Stuff that looks like it hurt. He just skims through it, getting the basic gist of what's listed. Most of it happened on a planet called Chorus. Most of it happened in fights against this group called the Reds and the Blues. There's no explanation of what the group is—all he really figures out from it is that all the Blues except for one are dead. Someone named Church, someone named Caboose, both of them are gone. Someone else named Tucker who stuck around.

After reading all of this, it's hard to tell who's who. There's a lot of new names. Wash finally flips to page 27, the last one in the document. The last page is bad. Even with a vaguely sketched illustration, he can tell that it's bad. He reads the description.

_WA, FELIX and LOCUS_ _, stealth mission_ _to take the New Cadenzo scientific facilities and obtain information on Elodea. Mission successful when FELIX retrieved the data we needed—however, the trio was ambushed by Cpt. TUCKER_ _and the REDS before they could escape. After the REDS helped ambush the team, FELIX was stabbed by TUCKER through the right lung and died during the fight, and WA was slashed with TUCKER's plasma sword four times across the chest and barely escaped with his life. LOCUS's whereabouts are currently unknown. Recovery time: four weeks._

Wash looks down and lifts his shirt up farther, until he can see the scars himself. There's four of them. Four long discolored gashes across his chest, stretching down from his neck to his torso. How he didn't die from any of those is a miracle.

Something sticks in his throat as he stares down at what should've been fatal wounds—he drops the shirt suddenly and reads the passage again. Felix, supposedly his ally, died. Locus, his other ally, disappeared. Wash himself barely got out of it alive. All because of this guy, this Captain Tucker. Tucker and the Reds. Whoever the Reds are, they helped kill his ally.

Tucker killed his ally, and almost killed Wash. 

These are the people Wash was fighting.

He makes a decision. If he ever sees any of them in person, he won't let them hurt him like that a second time.

There's nothing else in this file for him—he closes out of it and surveys the remaining folders. He's too confused about the past right now to worry about physical or psychological assessments. The basic army and early life stuff doesn't seem like it affected him as much as the other things, it might be better to leave those folders off for later. There are other folders there, labeled with things like _The Meta_ and  _Simulation Base Alpha Troopers_ and other oddly named things, but none of the topics seem too important either. Learning about what happened to get him here, in this room, _that's_ the important part. 

And to do that, he should start from where everything went wrong. He thinks about the chronology from the basic analysis he'd just read. What came first? PFL. He should read those first.

He opens the folder and immediately understands what PFL stands for. The words 'Project Freelancer' are everywhere on these files. He was a Freelancer, the capitalized kind. There are a few other folders inside it, stuff like _personnel files, Freelancer Agent profiles, Project Freelancer mission logs, experimental technology, AI, Recovery logs, Freelancer Agent personal logs, Project Freelancer event calendar._

Wash opens _Freelancer Agent profiles_ and scrolls through the names until he finds his folder. He chooses the first of three files inside it. There's a lot of redundancy in this one, but it's not very long. None of Lochley's injury reports. The same basic information from his personnel file is there, and the same stuff is blacked out, except this time there are no additions by Lochley. He assumes it's all written by the same person who wrote the other files, this Counselor Price. Wonder who he was.

The only unique feature in this entire report is a single line—

 

**_AI ASSIGNMENT: Epsilon_ **

****

Epsilon. He's heard that one before. Maybe Lochley said it earlier, he can't remember, but he can feel something weighing down on him when he reads the word. Something bad happened around that name.

The second file is a transcript. A conversation—an interview, between two people. Obviously one of them is Wash. There's a name, all blacked out, that must be Wash, and he's conversing with someone named Price. Counselor Price again.

Wash reads through the file carefully, silent in confusion as the words on the page seem as natural as if they were coming from his own mouth. He'd say that. He'd say that. That too. That—that was a good joke, he likes that one. He'd say all of it. It's so fucking weird, reading this, like it's not him. It's another person who's exactly identical to him in every way, who might as well just be him—but reading it feels disconnected. He can picture himself in that scenario, talking, reading out the transcript like a movie script, but he can't remember or even imagine what it must've actually felt like to be there.

Still, it's the first concrete evidence Wash has had of anything he'd done before losing his memory. It's the only thing he's found where someone else isn't describing him, but _he's_ there, talking, being himself, referring to his memories like they're the most obvious things in the world. Even if those memories entail putting a fifth grader's face through a mirror.

He sounds skeptical, even to himself. Like he doesn't quite believe Price, or the idea of a person who can just make the universe better. Even in this moment, he still doesn't quite believe in that kind of person.

But...he's gotta admit it. Seeing the evidence here, he can understand why he signed up for Project Freelancer. He didn't really have much of a choice—it was them or prison, or whatever it is that would come after a court martial. And they seemed like an okay option. They wanted to win the war. 

So what went wrong?

He opens the third file, labeled _Director's analysis._

_**In the beginning, I advised that recruiting**_ _[REDACTED] **would be a wise choice. His early records were anything but exemplary, and his dismissal from the UNSC worried the Counselor to no avail, but regardless, I decided to allow**_   _[REDACTED] **to join under the name Agent Washington. However, now I begin to see the error in this decision. The Counselor was correct in his analysis of**_ _[REDACTED]_ _ **.** __**Agent Washington is talented, devoted, but heavily distrusting, and has a lot to learn about the way Project Freelancer operates.** _ _**He's always questioning the authority we hold, and I find myself constantly reminding him of the fact that we are still at war. In a war, we do what we must to save humanity. Sometimes there are sacrifices that must be made. He would do well to learn this. Perhaps, after receiving his AI companion, something in him may change.** _

_[REDACTED]_

**_The events that have transpired concerning Epsilon only serve to make me more wary of Agent Washington's position. He knows far too much now, is too unstable. Moving him to the Recovery team should isolate him from the rest of the group and keep him in line. We cannot afford to lose him the same way we lost Agent Connecticut. Too much is at stake. If the UNSC finds out about what happened, they will shut us down for good, and I cannot allow that until my work is complete._ **

 

So apparently Wash didn't really trust the Director. Apparently he bent the rules, enough to concern Wash. And then there's Epsilon again. That name is everywhere, _why?!_ What _happened?_  Jesus, he's gonna go insane if he doesn't figure out what happened with Epsilon.

He's also curious about whatever happened to Agent Connecticut, but the word _Epsilon_ is screaming too loud in his head. He wants to know. He goes back to the other PFL folders and chooses _AI_ , then _Epsilon._ Practically nothing is redacted on these pages.

**_FRAGMENT DESIGNATION: Epsilon_ **

_**DATE HARVESTED:** [REDACTED]_

**_ASPECT: Memory_ **

**_ASSIGNED TO: Agent Washington_ **

**_SUCCESS RATE: 8%_ **

****

There are a few short paragraphs detailing how Epsilon was created by fragmenting an existing AI into smaller pieces, but Wash finds himself stuck on the numbers. Eight percent success rate. That's low. Very, very low. Clearly it didn't work out with him and Epsilon.

Wash flips to the next page and starts to understand why.

He reads the story of Epsilon once, then, not quite understanding it, a second time. Then ten times. Even more. Each time with a strange dawning horror in his gut as he realizes what this machine did to him. It _broke_ him. It left him a shell of who he was. According to the records, Epsilon tried to delete itself in Wash's mind, and when it did, it shattered whatever sanity Wash had in that moment. As Epsilon broke, it took Wash with it, until it was too much for either of them to handle. It says that Wash had tried to kill himself when it happened, but he'd been too shocked and slow to pull the trigger before someone had ripped the gun away.

There's an entire paragraph about how badly Wash had been broken psychologically, how it took months to bring him back to some degree of reality—followed immediately by another paragraph explaining how vital it was to preserve both Wash and Epsilon after the incident, how the fit should've been perfect. But it wasn't. Something that horrible couldn't ever be perfect. He'd wanted to _kill_ himself. He'd wanted to die, but the project wouldn't let him.

It says that Wash had been saying things. It says that, in between the screams of pain and torment, Wash had been reciting memories from the past, memories that belonged to Epsilon's parent program. Memories of people, of lost people, horrible crimes, ethics violations, all covered up by the Director of Project Freelancer. But it seems like the person writing the report didn't know just how _much_ Wash knew or didn't, so after that, there's some instructions on how to handle him.

 

**_No matter how much he knows, we cannot allow Washington to go forward with any of this information. We'll keep him with us for as long as we can. In the meantime, exercise extreme restraint when discussing sensitive material around him. He is to be pulled off all missions for the foreseeable future, forbidden access to any AI. Recovery seems like the best unit for him, see how long we can keep him there. If he starts to ask too many questions, kill him._ **

 

If he starts to ask too many questions, kill him. They were perfectly willing to kill him, but they wouldn't just let him die. So instead they let him suffer, for who knows how long, then reassigned him to someplace where he wouldn't be a problem.

And he doesn't remember any of it.

But this  _happened._ He knows that. This is too much to fake, it makes him feel too unnerved. It had to be real. They forced him to take Epsilon into his neural implants. They really did this to him. 

What kind of bullshit group is this?

It's no wonder he didn't fucking trust the Director, no wonder he kept fighting his authority. This is wrong. _All_ of this is wrong. He can't imagine himself protesting against them without reason, if the project claimed to be fighting in the war. This entire project must've been as bad as it gets—and all this is just from reading his _own_ files. What did Project Freelancer do to everyone else?

 

**_alert: elevated heartrate_ **

**_higher stress levels detected_ **

 

He blinks at the sudden words in the corner of his vision—he hadn't even noticed how angry he'd gotten, just reading this. His heart is racing, and he's vaguely aware of just how tightly he's gripping the datapad. Wash makes himself take a couple deep breaths, but he's barely finished the first before curiosity kicks back in and he has to keep going.

Lochley said that Maine had died, and then the Director's passage had mentioned Connecticut disappearing. Those were the two who had saved him, more than once. They'd disobeyed orders to do so, and taken heat for it. What happened to them? 

Wash goes back to the profiles and opens the file on Agent Connecticut.

 

**_NAME:_** _[REDACTED]_

_**ALIAS: Agent Connecticut** (occasionally shortened to Connie or CT by her peers)_

**_AI ASSIGNMENT: N/A_ **

**_STATUS: Mercenary until_** _[REDACTED]_ **_, Freelancer and Charon informant until_ ** _[REDACTED]_ _**, KIA by TX on** _ _[REDACTED]_

_**AGE: 31 at time of death, born**_ _[REDACTED]_ **_, KIA on_ ** _[REDACTED]_

_**APPEARANCE: Pale skin, short brown hair shaved on one side, dark eyes. Fairly short. Abundant scarring, particularly from knife wounds. Other than that, very few significant features.** _

_**RELATIONSHIPS:**  _ _[REDACTED] **Father**  _ _[REDACTED]_ _, **location unknown**_ _**. Mother**  _ _[REDACTED]_ _**, location unknown. Charon soldier and lover** _ _[REDACTED] **, KIA by the Reds and Blues on**_ _[REDACTED]_

_**MEDICAL CONDITION(S): N/A** _

**_PHYSICAL ASSESSMENT: Accomplished fighter and assassin. What she lacks in strength, she makes up for in speed and stealth. However, she is unreliable in the field and often ends up causing failure in her missions._ **

_**PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT: Very reclusive.** _ _**Subject often seems unlikely to trust her teammates. She disappears from any social situations for long periods of time, unlikely to initiate any contact with anyone. Only with the low-ranked soldiers, WA, and ME can she be found with consistently. It is unadvisable to share very sensitive information with her.**_

_**NOTES: She handed too much of our research over to the UNSC. Should something else of this caliber happen, we will need to be harsher.** _ _**We cannot allow a failure like this to happen again.** _

__

There's another page after that, labeled with the words,  _'cause of death'._

_**After CT disappeared, WY and FL tracked her down to an Insurrectionist base. The entire team was sent in to recover the equipment and intel that she had stolen. C and TX went ahead of the group and confronted CT and the Insurrectionist. While fighting TX, CT suffered two deep stab wounds to the chest. Subject died of blood loss and damage to internal organs.** _

__

So Connecticut—Connie, he just _knows_ he must've called her Connie—was an informant for Charon. And apparently, Wash was one of her few friends. And she was killed by a Freelancer—TX. Agent Texas. A Freelancer killed his friend. They killed Connie.

There's nothing else in her file, but that can't be it. There must be more of her. Maybe somewhere else? He leaves the file and starts rifling through the other folders until he finds her personal logs. There's a mix of audio transcripts and corresponding videos in her folder, but a lot of them are corrupted or incomplete and none of them are named anything that catches his attention. He combs through every transcript for any mention of him, and for almost ten minutes, he doesn't find anything—then, in one of the last files, he spots his name.

Wash peeks his head out from his bunk and looks up. There's no light from a datapad, no movement, just an almost imperceptible snore. Good to know Ringer's not awake. He doesn't really like Ringer, he can't imagine getting into a fight with him over a video.

He pulls up the video and presses play.

He's not sure what he feels when he sees Connie. That must be her, right? She matches the description, despite the static making the video fuzzy. The room around her isn't much different from the one he's in right now, except there's only one bed. Connie's at some sort of desk, and she's leaning far back in her chair, her legs propped up on something out of sight. She's not looking at the camera, her eyes averted as she fiddles with a small serrated knife in her hands.

Connie sighs.

_"Personal Log, entry CT37-6. What did I tell you? They_ _brought in a new one today. Gave him the name 'Washington', just like my intel said they would. There was the whole introductions charade when he got in, as usual, you know the drill, only the poor guy looked like he was going to drop dead before he even stepped off his ship. I mean, what do you expect when your welcoming party is the Director, the Counselor, Carolina, and Maine? Scary bunch._ _Not gonna lie, I thought the guy was going to piss himself when he saw Maine, that fucking giant."_

She looks up and smiles briefly, as if picturing it, and Wash can almost feel himself wanting to smile too.

_"I started talking with him before anyone else could grab him. Y'know, just to see what I'm dealing with. It's hard enough, having to avoid Carolina and all the rest of the bigwigs. Another one? Well, that would just be a problem. But he seems alright."_

Connie pauses for a moment, sitting up and putting her knife down. _"Well, not alright. He's a ginormous fucking nerd. Dorky, too. He keeps making really bad puns—I'll admit it though, I did laugh at a few. And we were talking in the locker rooms, and when he started unpacking his stuff, he put two pictures of cats in there. TWO. And a skateboard, and a rubber duck, for the love of god. You'd think he saw this as moving into a college dorm. Man, and then_ _Wash—oh, right. Yeah, I got tired of saying the whole thing, we both decided I could just call him Wash."_

His friends call him Wash.

_"Anyway, the Triplets were all over him, I can tell they're gonna like him. Oh, and he kind of just called me Connie out of nowhere, but I didn't really correct him. I feel like he won't be an asshole about it."_ She sighs again. Not quite as relaxed as the first. _"Connecticut, Washington. What a mouthful... Anyway, I think I trust him. He seems cool. A good person. I could probably even convince him I'm doing the right thing, giving you the details about the Project._ _I mean, maybe. If you ask me, he seems a little too comfortable already. Or maybe not. After all, I don't really know him yet_ _. I almost thought about asking him about why he joined, but...I dunno. He's nice, but he just seems naive. And this isn't a good place for naïveté. Either the Director pounds it out of him, or he grows up. Here's to hoping I help him with the second one."_

Connie stands and straightens her jacket. _"There's a mission Friday, both of us are going to be on it. I'll do my best to mess it up and get this month's intel to you. Hopefully he doesn't get caught in the crossfire? It'd be a shame if he died so fast. Besides, I get the feeling we'll make a good team. Connie out."_

The video ends.

Wash stares at Connie's image on the screen, frozen in time, and he can't help but feel nauseous. She trusted him. She went out of her way to be nice to him. Even from that one video, he can tell she was funny, and sweet, and kind and caring. Connie was his friend, and she trusted him, and she tried to get the word out about Project Freelancer, and Project Freelancer killed her. They killed her for doing the right thing.

Why would anyone _ever_ kill Connie?

He knows what he needs to look at next, and after what he's just read he's afraid to see it. But he goes to Maine's folder regardless and opens the file.

 

**_NAME:_** _[REDACTED]_

_**ALIAS: Agent Maine** _

**_AI ASSIGNMENT: Sigma_ **

**_STATUS: Unknown until_** _[REDACTED]_ **_, Freelancer until_ ** _[REDACTED]_ _**,** Charon mercenary until _ _[REDACTED],_ _KIA by the Reds and Blues on_ _[REDACTED]_

_**AGE: 34 at time of death, born**_ _[REDACTED]_ **_, KIA on_** _[REDACTED]_

_**APPEARANCE: Dark skin, black hair nearly all shorn away, dark eyes. Abnormally tall and muscular. Heavy scarring, most prominently the gunshot wounds to his throat.** _

_**RELATIONSHIPS: Family unknown. Suspected of romantic relationship with WA.** _

_**MEDICAL CONDITION(S):**  _ _[REDACTED]_   _See information on Sigma and the Meta._

**_PHYSICAL ASSESSMENT: Extremely powerful and well-trained. He is an asset in the field, even without equipment._ **

_**PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT:**_ _[REDACTED]_ _See information on Sigma and the Meta._

_**NOTES:**_ _[REDACTED]_ _See information on Sigma and the Meta._

There's a lot of mention of _"Sigma and the Meta"_ , but Wash barely sees any of that.  _Killed in action by the Reds and Blues._ When Wash reads that line, everything else fades away. He can feel the raw anger building in his gut, the grief as he realizes that his friend is gone because of _them_. _They_ killed Maine. They must've been linked to Freelancer, why else would they do it?

 

_**CAUSE OF DEATH:** [REDACTED] _ _The Meta was tasked by Charon with hunting down TX, along with the REDS and BLUES, and successfully managed to track them all down to a PFL offsite storage facility. It was able to eliminate TX, but the sim troopers surprised it. After TUCKER managed to stab it with his plasma sword, they hooked their jeep's tow cable to the Meta's armor and pushed the jeep off a cliff. Subject was dragged into the water below and,_ _due to four puncture holes in its pressure suit, died from blood loss and asphyxiation._

 

Blood loss, puncture holes. All from Tucker's sword. Tucker _again_. Tucker killed Felix, Tucker killed the Meta. Why? Why is he killing the people on Wash's side?

The Meta. That must mean something. It's under Maine's cause of death, under Maine's profile. Maybe this Meta and Maine are the same thing. And if that's so, then Tucker is the reason Maine is dead.

He looked down at the sweater he's currently wearing, feeling over the hem of the fabric reverently. Drowned by getting dragged into the sea. What a horrible way to go. He can't imagine what Maine did to deserve that.

That anger settling in his stomach isn't going away, and it's making him feel sick. He needs to know more. He owes it to Maine, to Connie, to know what happened to them.

_Sigma and the Meta._ Sigma was Maine's AI, right? He should look there first. Wash opens the file.

 

**_FRAGMENT DESIGNATION: Sigma_ **

_**DATE HARVESTED:** [REDACTED]_

**_ASPECT: Creativity / Ambition_ **

**_ASSIGNED TO: Agent Maine_ **

**_SUCCESS RATE: 2%_ **

****

Only two? That's even worse than Epsilon, and Epsilon made Wash want to kill himself. What did Sigma do to Maine?

He doesn't want to know. But he starts reading anyway.

It doesn't start off that bad. Sigma was one of the first few AI used by Freelancer, it represented creativity and ambition. It was originally assigned to Agent Carolina—that must be who "C" was in Connie's reports. Apparently, Carolina gave it to Maine after Maine got shot in the throat on one of their missions. Maine needed to be able to communicate, but he wasn't meant to have Sigma. He just needed someone who could talk for him.

And then he learns that Sigma could do more than that.

When Wash reads about what Sigma did to Maine, it's the first time he finds something in any of these files that he doesn't believe. There's no way. Project Freelancer was bad, he knows that, but _this_? This is some bullshit. That's not right. 

But some part of him isn't that naive. He knows that, no matter how much Wash wants to believe otherwise, Sigma destroyed his friend. Sigma made Maine do whatever it wanted—and it wanted to be whole, so it made Maine go after other AI and steal them from the rest of the Freelancers. And the more "whole" Sigma became, the less of Maine there was left, until there was nothing left at all.

And Project Freelancer did nothing to stop it. Nothing to save Maine, before Sigma turned him into the Meta. He knows this because, in all the Meta reports, it says that they kept sending him on missions with the rest of the Freelancers. And they never did anything to take Sigma away, to keep Maine the way he was. They just let him slip away.

He reads through the files in a frantic hurry, and in his mind, he can imagine his friend losing touch, losing memories, losing pieces of himself—just like Wash must've when Epsilon tried to delete itself, only worse because Maine is dead now and Wash isn't. 

At least Maine wound up working with Charon eventually, despite everything that happened to him. But even then, he still died. He died trying to stop Project Freelancer and failed.

He tries to look for personal logs of Maine, anything, but all of his folders are either corrupted or empty. All the physical proof of Maine before Sigma is gone.

Wash isn't even angry anymore. Everything just hurts. Maine, Connie, Wash. Maine and Connie are dead. People he cared about, people he was clearly close to. Gone. Now Wash is all that's left.

For a few minutes, Wash just sits there in silence. He's too tired to dig further tonight. He has a million questions—what happened to Epsilon? What happened to Project Freelancer, to the other agents? Was it all just shut down, or is it still running, destroying everything else good in the universe? What happened to Wash after Epsilon went crazy, how did he end up with Charon? What's happening right now, outside this ship? What comes next? What kind of mission, what assignment, what can he do to make sure things like this don't happen again?

Where are the Reds and Blues?

And how can he make them pay?

He wants the answers to every question, _right now_ , but he knows it's not that easy. It took him long enough just to find out that his life was a vague mess and his friends were murdered, and that was taxing enough to learn, and even _then,_ every new fact he learned has just led to another thread of information that just raises more questions. But he still doesn't _remember_ any of it. Everything is uncannily familiar, but none of it has jarred anything loose in his mind. It's all just things he's going to have to relearn, and memorize, and live by, if he feels like it. And it's going to take him a while to learn enough of it to fully understand his situation, to learn what kind of person he was, and to figure out whatever comes with that.

And right now, he's too tired to dig further. He's emotionally and physically exhausted. With the little bit he learned about Project Freelancer, he doubts he'll even be able to sleep. How can he stop thinking about everything he's learned? It's like noise, just loud enough that he can't hear anything else. He tries to close his eyes but he sees Connie's video, her fingers testing the edge of a knife. He tries to relax but the words of Maine's death report are repeating behind his eyes.

What he'd like, he realizes, is a little bit of _mindless_ noise. Noise where he doesn't have to think too much.

Wash lays back on the bed and goes into his own logs, scrolls through a bit, then scrolls back and plays one of the first ones. He doesn't consciously choose it. He just lets the log play out, listening to himself talking and snarking and making bad jokes, staring at the lack of scars on his skin and the stupid grin on his face, watching as he jokes around with Maine sitting in the background of their quarters. He knows it's Maine immediately. Huge, buff, and wearing the sweater that Wash is wearing right now. It fits Maine better.

Then he plays the next one. And the next, and the next. And he slowly sees the jokes getting dryer, more sarcastic. He sees his smile fade a bit, notices the scars starting to add up. He knows which log comes immediately after that horrible torture mission, because he's covered in bandages and barely says a word for the entire three minutes. And Wash notices that Maine in the background gets more distant, less jovial. In one video, he stops speaking to Wash entirely, and there are little flashes of orange around his head whenever Wash isn't looking. And in another video, he's just not there anymore. But there are more videos to go. And Wash keeps going, and going, and watching, until he doesn't really see a difference between the faded person in the logs and his dull reflection on the screen.

Wash falls asleep to the sound of lost memories.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :/
> 
> This is a little shorter than usual, but I'm happy with the way it went. Also later than usual, but I just got my hearing aid last week (woohoo!! directional sound) and that kinda consumed a good ten days of my life. I'll be more on time with this now that I have a clearer idea of where it's going, and trust me, do I have plans.
> 
> Also @ the people who are commenting about how they can't wait to see how Wash gets out of this one, bless your hearts. I watched Quicksave on Monday and nothing matters anymore.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

…

For a moment, when Wash wakes up, he doesn't know where he is.

It hits him hard, the moment his eyes crack open. When the panic sets in, Wash scrambles upright and instinctively tries to call upon his memories, of anything that could explain he's doing in a place where everything is so unfamiliar, the walls, the smell, the unearthly hum coming from within the floors—

And then he remembers that there's nothing there to remember. That the last time he woke up, someone told him all his memories were gone. That nothing is familiar.

That he spent all last night trying to string together the pieces of what he was missing.

His breathing slows gradually, the fast-paced panic fading from his blood as he lets himself fall back down against the bed. He thinks maybe he had a nightmare. He doesn't know for sure. He just knows that, when he woke up, panic was ready to take over without hesitation. Maybe whatever he'd dreamt about had just primed it.

Wash glances to his side and sees the datapad, blinking annoyingly with a message that says _"END OF LOG WA27-8."_ The logs must've kept playing when he fell asleep. 

Bits and pieces of yesterday come back to him, dully at first, then clear and sharp and stabbing. He was a Freelancer. Project Freelancer did horrible things to him and his friends. Now he's here, supposedly trying to stop things like that from happening again.

The room, other than the underground hum that Wash now remembers is the engines of this giant ship, is quiet. Wash checks above him again and finds that Ringer has fixed his bed, taken one of the long rifles on the wall, and is gone.

Privacy.

...Huh. He marvels at the thought as he pulls himself to his feet and sets his datapad down on the mattress behind him. He doesn't think he's really had much privacy since waking up from whatever drug-induced coma he'd been in only a day before. There definitely wasn't any privacy in that room he'd found himself in, there were too many voices in his head, too much noise. And if any of his other records are to be believed, he never had much privacy before _that_ either.

He takes another look around the room. It seems so much bigger, now that Ringer's anger isn't taking up every inch of free space. There's almost enough room to breathe—hold on a second. He scoots past the table jutting out of the wall and notices a small door that he hadn't seen before. It goes to a bathroom. A _decent_ bathroom, with a functioning toilet and a sink and _soap_ and a small grate on the floor where the water from a rusted shower head on the ceiling is supposed to drain down into. Nothing like what he'd seen in the holding cell.

Curiously, Wash leans in past the door and notices two worn towels on a hook, one clearly more used than the other. Towels, for a bathroom. He's not sure why he hadn't expected a bathroom. He's not even sure why he's so mesmerized by a bathroom in the first place.

It occurs to him that maybe he hasn't seen a bathroom in months. The idea seems stupid. But then again, he doesn't think he's seen much of anything in the last few months. And he has no memories of anywhere else he's ever lived, so technically, he's never _really_ seen a bathroom.

And if he's never seen a bathroom, then he's never taken a shower.

Wash reaches inside, far enough to pull back the cleaner towel from the hook. It actually seems like it hasn't been used at all. Ringer wouldn't mind, right? It's just a towel. Well, actually, Ringer probably minds everything, but that's just a better reason to spite him.

After a curious moment, Wash turns the handle for cold water about halfway. It comes out slowly at first, and then without warning it's suddenly a downpour, icy and instant. He yelps and recoils from the water like knives have started raining from the ceiling. Fuck, _what the fuck,_ that's not what he expected. He hates that. It's freezing. He _hates_ that.

He reaches for the warm water handle and immediately turns it as far as it will go, almost in awe when he hears the hiss of steam. Hot has to be better than cold, right?

Before he can think about anything else, he tugs off his clothes and steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

The second the water touches his bare skin, something clicks. He's instantly aware of something fundamental, almost stupid, that he'd forgotten—hot is so,  _SO_ much better than cold. A trillion times better, more than that. As soon as the steam surrounds him, and all he's thinking about is the heat, and the water is saturating every breath he takes, he realizes that he could stay there for hours and days and months and years and never want to leave.

This isn't him trying to remind himself of what his past was like by reading and proving what other people said about him. It's the flip of a switch, instantaneous, and without any hesitation his mind makes the connection. This is something he _likes_. This is something he's liked for a long time.

A dazed moan slips from his tongue before he can stop it, a genuine smile following immediately after. Something tells him the shower is probably a good amount too hot to be healthy, but no cosmic force in this whole godforsaken universe can make him step out of that shower of his own free will.

He's not sure how long he stays there, standing under the downpour, feeling good. Maybe twenty minutes in or so, he steals the bar of soap from the sink and actually does what you're supposed to do in a shower. He scrubs it especially hard through his damp hair, feeling the lather rain down the sides of his face and sting in his eyes, and when he's done rinsing off he just stays there some more. The water is hot and wonderful against him, though he can't help feeling strange when the droplets patter quietly off the implant site on the back of his neck. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to that.

After a while, he starts to wonder about how instantly he'd realized he liked the heat. It was just the touch of the water that had triggered it, but feeling it was electric, like some pathway within him had connected the second the water hit his skin. Instantaneous. And it was different than everything else he's learned, every little experiment to see what he likes and doesn't. He'd just known.

He'd _remembered._

Right?

Was that what it was? He thinks it might have been remembering. It was too sudden to be a conscious decision.

Maybe...maybe all his memories _aren't_  gone after all. Maybe they just need to be jogged. Or maybe this was just a biological and subconscious reaction to something he liked in the past, and he's getting his hopes up pointlessly. That seems more likely, but it's less enticing of an idea. If there's a better way to get his memories back than reading about his past in a file, shouldn't he be trying it?

When Wash finally, _finally_ turns the water off and starts to run the towel through his sopping hair, he makes a decision. If he sees anything he thinks might trigger him to remember something, he's going to go for it. No matter what.

He steps out of the shower and gets dressed silently, mourning the lack of a change in clothes. That's just poor hygiene.

After he's done getting dressed, and he's just standing awkwardly in a corner of the room, he realizes something. What is he supposed to _do?_ Supposedly he's a soldier. Shouldn't he be fighting? Or is this just his time to recover from losing his memory? He doesn't think he needs that long to recover. He feels...well, not _amazing_ , but he thinks he can be more useful stopping the bad guys than just sitting around.

His stomach grumbles suddenly, a warning. He's hungry. How long had he been under? Two months? He wonders how long it's been since he ate something that wasn't fed to him through an IV. Wonders what kind of food he likes. Whatever he likes, it probably isn't on this ship.

Wash seats himself at the small table and fiddles with the datapad, randomly skipping through folders, not clicking anything. There's so much more to learn, but he doesn't know where to start. He knows a little, but that's only on a few of the Freelancers and he only has a general sense of how fucked it all is. 

He's not sure what draws him to the Freelancer Agent profiles. Maybe he's hoping for more people like Connie, like Maine. Other pieces of the puzzle. Maybe some of them were his friends too. Maybe there was some reason they all joined up with Project Freelancer, like him, maybe they didn't have a choice. Maybe they weren't all bad. 

He starts reading through the profiles alphabetically, going through each of them while looking for anything that might indicate they were also on Charon's side. As he reads about an agent, he looks at the related files in other places—if they have an AI, a couple video logs, just in case anything jogs a memory. He's especially careful to look for Lochley's notes, since Lochley only added things to files that influenced Charon. But he doesn't find many of her notes in the first few. A mention here or there, a mild correction. Nothing substantial.

There's not a lot of interesting material in the first hour of reading—he's barely mentioned at all, and frankly, the reports sound basically the same. They're all reformed mercenaries or soldiers, none of them really had a problem with the project, they were all pretty loyal. He gets the sense that he didn't hang out with a lot of these people. But when he gets to the files on Agent Carolina, that sense changes. 

All of a sudden, there are folders and folders full of information on this Carolina. He reads through everything pertaining to her, trying to piece together why Lochley's notes have suddenly gone from a couple of words to full paragraphs. She was a team leader, top of the ranks, always bailing people out of the bad situations they inevitably got into. He does some digging and realizes that _he_ was on her team too. Him, Maine, Connie, South Dakota, and a few others. They worked with Carolina to do a lot of big missions against Charon targets—which probably indicates her loyalty. From what he understands, he followed Carolina into a lot of situations that he now knows he regretted. She led them against Charon.

When he gets to the part of their story where she was assumed dead, that's when the timeline of this all starts to click. Their ship—the Mother of Invention—it crashed after some sort of rebellion by some of the other Freelancers. Then Maine, or the Meta, he's not sure, tried to kill Carolina and took the two AI she had. He breaks off for a second to read the mission report and learns that the rest of the Freelancers either died in the crash or fled—but not him. Wash was trapped in the ship, only a few days after Epsilon tried to kill itself in his head. Some structural collapse had kept him pinned in the infirmary, nearly dying, unable to escape.

And none of his teammates came back for him. Not Connie, who was already dead, or Maine, who was too far gone to notice.

Carolina, his  _leader,_ the one who always got everyone else out of their tough situations—she didn't come back for him either.

Then after that, he must've been found by the Director. And Project Freelancer held onto him in their Recovery squad until Wash had had enough and defected.

He hates reading this stuff. He accepts it, understands that this is just how it is, but he hates it. He just keeps feeling sick. Sicker and sicker with every betrayal he learns about, every backstabbing, every injury. Nothing he reads makes it feel like all this suffering was worth it.

Where are all the _good_ memories?

He shakes off the overall annoyance with the way of things and goes back to Carolina's files. The notes aren't very complete, apparently Carolina was good at keeping off the radar. He reads through the fragmented story of her adventures, where she did the dirty work by hunting down and eliminating UNSC targets that were getting in the way of the project. And then...he doesn't really understand it fully, but he thinks the project got shut down, and then Carolina went rogue, and then she—

His vision goes red as he reads the line. _Teamed up with the armies of Chorus and the Reds and Blues._  She joined up with those motherfuckers. She abandoned him with Freelancer, just to get all buddy-buddy with the people who killed Maine.

He thinks maybe he should make a list of all the people who are going to pay when he finds them. It's starting to get long.

Wash switches over to some of her video logs, watching as Carolina presents herself tersely and goes through every main point of her logs quickly and efficiently. Professional, that's the first thing that comes to mind. Like she's been doing this shit a long time. Like the horrible things she's describing in her logs, the murders, the deaths, the ethics violations, don't faze her. She mentions good experiences too, times shared with some of the other Freelancers, a guy named York, but there's barely even a smile when she says so.

He doesn't even watch through the full videos, they're all the same thing. Instead he just skims through one and moves to the next, looking for any variation and finding none.

Then he finds one where there's something. A smile. Sort of. Not very genuine, just cocky, a little sloppy. She's just a little bit more relaxed in her chair, leaning back. He notices on one corner of the screen, there's a shadow of what looks like a bottle. Maybe drunk. Probably.

_"Uhh, personal log, C12-2? I think that's right. I don't care."_ Carolina stares smugly at the table as she says,  _"I beat Maine today. MAINE. Fucking finally. I wiped the floor with him during training at 0920 hours and I'm at the top of the leaderboard. That should keep the old man pacified for now, stop him from tearing at my throat_ _. I don't think anything can kick me down from the top slot, no way in hell."_

Carolina reaches for the bottle and takes a hearty swig, then slams it down and looks directly into the camera. She looks defiant. With the slightest bit of a red tinge to her cheeks and nose, sure, but she looks proud and cocky and happy and defiant.

_"You want my report, Price? I'll give you my report. I win. I finally win. And this isn't gonna stop here. I'm going to do this, I'm gonna stay up top, and I'm going to lead the—"_

 

**_incoming transmission_ **

**_sci officer LOCHLEY, MARISSA R._ **

**_GOOD MORNING, AGENT WASHINGTON._ **

****

The words appear so suddenly, Wash almost misses them. But after a moment, he notices them, right in the corner of his vision, and a deep chill shudders down his spine the second he does. Carolina's voice keeps going in the background but he doesn't hear a word, his focus is locked on the tiny little words waiting for an answer.

An incoming _transmission_. To him. What, does his head have radio capabilities now, thanks to those implants? So anyone who has access to them can contact him at any time, and he can't avoid it because it goes straight to his fucking _brain?!_

 

**_YOU'RE NOT BLIND, ARE YOU?_ **

 

Jesus. Lochley's talking to him. Right now. She's talking to him, basically, through his _eyes_. That only serves to heighten his already-pretty-damn-high level of discomfort.

 

**_AH, THERE'S THAT ELEVATED BLOOD PRESSURE AGAIN._ **

**_GOOD TO SEE YOU'RE RECEIVING ME._ **

 

His mouth opens and closes, trying and failing to form a coherent answer. He's not even sure if he'd be able to form full words. How would she even know if he's responding? How _does_ he respond? "...I, uh, I-I—"

 

**_TALK NORMALLY, I CAN HEAR YOU JUST FINE._ **

**_AND MUTE THAT, WILL YOU?_ **

**_IT'S DISTRACTING._ **

****

Mute—oh. Oh, the log. He turns off the datapad and cuts Carolina off mid-syllable.

Lochley can hear him. If she heard the log, she can hear everything around him. She's probably been listening to everything that he says or does—wait, fuck. Can she _see_ what he sees too? If she's been listening to everything through who knows what, then literally watching him doesn't seem to be too much of a stretch. Had she been watching him in the shower? Oh, gosh, he doesn't like the thought of that. That likely breach of privacy is unsettling in a way that even his fucked-up past hasn't yet managed to achieve.

 

**_THERE, MUCH BETTER._ **

**_COME TO MY OFFICE BEFORE NOON._ **

**_ROOM 6-106A._ **

**_WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS._ **

 

Her office?

Wash puts the pad down slowly and fiddles with his fingers, unsure of what to do with them, now that it's likely that she's watching him. "I...I don't know anything about this ship. I don't know how to get there."

 

**_THERE'S A MAP OF THE SHIP ON YOUR DATAPAD UNDER ICARUS RESOURCES._ **

**_YOUR ROOM IS 1-652D._ **

**_I COULD JUST SEND YOU THE DIRECTIONS THROUGH YOUR IMPLANTS_ ** **_, BUT I THINK YOU'D DO WELL TO LEARN THE CONFIGURATION OF THE SOC ON YOUR OWN._ **

**_DON'T BE LATE._ **

**_transmission terminated_ **

****

...Oh.

Great.

An uncomfortable noise sounds at the back of his throat before he can stop it. Wash almost leans back in his chair, before remembering the stool doesn't have a back, so instead he slumps forward onto the table. The words are gone from his implants, but the orders still remain. He has to go to her office by noon. What time is it? He's not sure. It's not noon yet, right?

Panic seems to be a constant in his life. Even now, as it slowly fades, he can feel his heart racing in his chest. She's watching him. She's probably been watching him since the moment he walked away from her into these quarters. 

He pulls up the pad and checks the time. 11:38 am. He doesn't have a lot of time to figure out where he's going.

Wash hasn't forgotten what an order is, even after losing his memory. Despite the fact that he'd very much like to stay in this exact place and never move a muscle for the rest of his life, he knows that Lochley's request was an order. He doesn't have a choice. 

The map takes some digging to find, but he eventually notices it inside a subfolder of the ICARUS folder. It takes him a good few minutes just to find where he is on the map, and where he's going, but he thinks he understands the general route. If he can just get to one of the elevators, it's pretty straightforward from there.

He sighs and closes the datapad, laboriously getting up from the table. Completing the story of Agent Carolina will have to wait.

...

Wash gets lost three times before he finds the elevator, and it's not even the one he intended to find. First he accidentally reorients the map so it's upside down, and the other two times, he finds himself at dead ends in front of someone else's quarters. By the time he's found the elevator, there are two minutes left.

The ride up the elevator takes twelve seconds, marked by the impatient tapping of his foot against the ground. He doesn't want to be late. He doesn't know what she'll do if he's late, and he doesn't like the idea of going in there late and finding out.

When the doors open he's already dashing down the hallway. He pushes past a few people with hurried apologies and does his best to follow the directions he'd planned on the map, and he almost gets lost again—until suddenly, without warning, the hallway is familiar. It's the same one he was in when Lochley first took him into the halls, after waking up.

It's the same wing. 

Come _on_ , Wash. You can do this.

After a moment of hesitation, he turns off the pad and holds it at his side.

Memory takes a fragile hold of him as he moves a little slower through the hallway, retracing the path from yesterday, not yet gone from his mind. 088C. Not here yet. Where is it, where _is_ it? He takes a uncertain turn down one of the side hallways and suddenly he's in the main hallway, and all the rooms end in A.

He checks both ways—left, the numbers on the left are going up, and he follows the numbers up along the right wall until he's standing in front of 106A.

Wash releases a heavy breath as he realizes that he's not actually late. It's noon. Somehow he made it. And he remembered the way. That achievement, however small, feels like a victory.

He's about to knock on the door when Lochley's voice calls from inside. _"You can come in."_

How did she—oh. Right, she's still watching him. Of course she knows where he is. He doesn't think he'll get used to that either.

Wash grips the handle and twists, pushing the door open.

The office is smaller than he expected. A single desk takes up nearly half of the room, with just enough space on the sides for someone to get behind it, but it still seems like a close fit. The desk has a single computer setup and an alarming amount of loose papers and pens piled up on it, which seems out of character considering how neatly Lochley has presented herself in their past few encounters. A few pictures hang in nondescript frames on the wall—Lochley with what Wash can only assume is her family, pictures of her with a tall man at her side, pictures of the two of them holding a little baby girl. The photos are the only things in the room that make it feel less like the last place he’d ever want to be inside.

Lochley glances up momentarily from the monitor on her desk and scoffs lightly as Wash steps inside. "Ah. Agent Washington, punctual as ever. I'm glad to see you made it here without trouble."

Wash doesn't really register Lochley’s words—because when he follows the line of pictures across the wall to one of the two chairs in front of the desk, he notices the man sitting down in the chair to his right.

 

**_tech officer OLA, HERNÁN J._ **

**_second in command of project icarus_ **

**_FRIENDLY_ **

 

Wash stops halfway through pushing the door closed as Ola smiles up at him from his chair, and at some innate instinct, his hand stays firmly around the edge of the door.

"Agent Washington!" Ola stands and holds out a hand to shake, and again, that instinct only makes Wash's grip tighten.

The man seems to notices this, and the smile fades a bit from his face as he pulls his hand back. He folds both arms behind his back and makes an almost courteous nod in Lochley's direction. "I see. You did warn me of this." Ola looks back at Wash, his expression almost sympathetic, but the sympathy feels kind of dulled by his pristine white labcoat. "We've never been... _formally_ introduced, but I greatly admire your work, Agent Washington. I look forward to assisting you."

When Lochley sighs and looks up at Wash, she somehow manages to draw his attention away from Ola. Wash looks at her and her hands are folded together on the table impatiently. “I suggest you rethink your reaction carefully, Washington. You and Officer Ola will be working with me daily in order to bring your memory up to speed. Memory is a delicate thing, nobody knows that better than you—and Ola is the best with neural implants there is. As such, it would be a shame if your relationship started off on the wrong foot."

Wash can feel his stomach sinking further with every word. This is the man Lochley used to threaten him. The one who prefers physical torture above all else. The one who had pressed a button in that dark, dark room, months ago, and suddenly Wash's world had been on fire.

_Daily._

Ola extends his hand again, and Wash gets what Lochley was implying. She could've just said three words. _Shake his hand._

Let go of the door and shake the hand of the man who will make your life a living hell if you step out of line, just once.

He glances at Lochley and she's still staring at him, waiting for him to do it.

Against his better judgement and every muscle in his body, he releases the door and takes Ola’s hand. Ola immediately grabs onto him with his other hand as well and shakes, hard, his grip tight to the point of discomfort, without taking his eyes off Wash’s for an instant.

“Great!” Ola exclaims, still squeezing like he plans on asphyxiating Wash’s right hand. There’s a strange glint in his dull green eyes, oddly menacing against his smile. “I can tell we’re going to get along well, Washington. Just you see. We’ll have your memories back in no time, and pretty soon, you’ll be back in the fight."

The second he releases Wash’s hand, Wash pulls it back and flexes his fingers rapidly. Fuck, that was a tight grip. His hand feels like every individual bone has just been through a hydraulic press. If every encounter with Ola is going to be like that, he’d rather just lose the hand.

Ola sits and gestures to the seat next to him, and after a hesitant moment, Wash sits down. Lochley finally turns away from her monitor to face them, but her gaze quickly centers on Wash.

“Business first—we have something you may want to see. Ola?”

Ola nods and holds out a small stack of papers to Wash, which Wash only takes after looking at Lochley to see if this is some kind of test. Printed on the cover is, surprise surprise, another redacted box, but that’s not the part that catches his eye.

 

_[REDACTED] — SUBJECT ICARUS 7_

_Project ICARUS Volunteer Terms, Contract and Waiver_

"You seemed confused before as to the terms of our arrangement. I believe this should satisfy any questions you may still have as to your employment situation here."

Oh. This is it, then. This is why he’s here.

He must’ve signed it with his name.

The idea hits him suddenly, but as sharp as a blade. It’s a contract. He _had_ to have signed it, his name must be here, otherwise what was the point of a contract in the first place? Curiosity takes hold and he quickly flips through to the actual contract itself, but to his dismay, everything here is covered up too. It’s not as neat as it was digitally, though. Every black mark looks like it’s been drawn in by hand, and in some places, he thinks he can see messy handwriting and numbers and letters showing through.

Wash can feel the scrutiny he’s getting from the two of them but he ignores it. He finally finds what he’s looking for—the last black box on the last page. Right next to the words  _“volunteer signature”_ is a tall black mark. And if he looks closely enough, he can see the tiniest upper edge of a scrawled letter poking above the black bar. 

His whole body slumps over when he sees that. That’s it? He doesn’t even know what letter it is.

“I know that not knowing your real name is upsetting,” Lochley says, an excruciating understatement. “But it was part of your contract that we redact any information regarding to your identity from our official files. Should you be captured, or our information stolen, we wanted to make sure nobody had anything that could come back to harm you or your family. The same goes for the rest of the Freelancers—at the very least, they were people, and we respect their privacy.”

He closes the packet of papers silently, passing it back to Ola. Protecting his family. That makes it marginally better. If people don’t know who Agent Washington is, they don’t know anything about him, and they wouldn’t have anything to threaten him with. He doesn’t miss the insinuation there either—that the other side is willing to do something like that just to take Charon down. If that’s the reason, he doesn’t mind not knowing his name as much. It makes sense for his name, some details, and any specifics about him that can be traced back to his family, to be hidden. 

"Of course," she continues, "when you signed this, you were still aware of your name. But now that even _you_ don't know it, I'd say that makes your family that much safer, no?"

"I guess.” So, for his family’s sake, he can't know his name. Gosh, he doesn’t even _know_ his family. And they probably don’t know much about him right now either. But for family, he’ll do this. He’s going to have to accept that and stick with Agent Washington for now...but maybe he can get her to give him something else. He waits a beat before adding, “That still doesn’t explain why all the important dates are redacted, too.”

“That was more of a…” Lochley searches for the word. “A personal decision. More recent, as well. Project Freelancer lied frequently in its reports to the UNSC in order to cover up their illegal experiments. They wanted to make it seem like all their tests were done on the same AI, in order to avoid suspicion. Were you to see the files without the redactions, it would be difficult for you to put your own timeline together, and your recovery would be that much longer. Besides, the date of an event isn’t important if the information can be understood without it. And so far, you understand what you’ve read, correct?"

...She’s not wrong. He _has_ gotten the gist of things without any of the dates. He shrinks back into his chair a little bit under the pressure of her stare, feeling more awkward with every second he sits there. "…Well, _yeah,_ but I—”

“I understand if you’re still confused—you haven’t read nearly enough to put everything together. But even without knowing the exact dates of every event, the chronological approach you’ve taken is sensible.” She pauses for a moment, purses her lips, then continues. "By the way, If I were you, I wouldn’t waste too much time on getting to know every single Freelancer. Carolina, Maine, Connecticut. You know the important ones already.”

“How do you...” He stops—he already knows the answer even as the question leaves his mouth.

"As I thought, you figured it out. You're quite intelligent, Washington." Lochley smiles. “When I contacted you, I noticed you stop fidgeting the second I brought up your surroundings. As I’m sure you've suspected, your ocular implants are a two-way street. We project to you the important information that you need, such as the profiles that you’ve been seeing and our private messages—and through your implants, we can see whatever you do. Since we can’t expect you to stay in one of our labs forever while we hold a camera on you, we figured that using the implants was the next best option to keep your progress under surveillance."

He gulps. That’s the confirmation that she’s been watching him. She saw everything. He didn’t do anything suspicious or wrong, but she still saw everything he’s done. He doesn’t like the thought of anyone watching his life from his eyes.

For a second, the room is silent.

“2250,” Lochley says suddenly.

Wash looks at her with a blank stare. “I—"

“You wanted to know the date. I can’t un-redact everything, but I can at least tell you that. Today is January 11th, 2550.” Lochley flashes him a sympathetic smile that, unlike Ola’s, looks somewhat genuine. "Sorry that you had to miss Christmas—from what your past implant technician told me, you were really looking forward to it."

He looks down at his hands, unsure where to focus his attention so he doesn’t have to look at her. That doesn’t mean anything. He knows today’s date, but relative to the rest of his life, it doesn’t seem to matter much. The thought that he might celebrate Christmas had never even occurred to him. Maybe he enjoyed some part of it, but for the life of him, he can’t think of which one.

“Did you sleep well, Agent Washington?” Lochley asks.

Yet again, Wash blanks. “…What?”

The look she gives him is far too dry to be considered merely patronizing. “It’s not a difficult question. _Lord_ knows we haven’t given you any difficult questions yet. Last night. Did you sleep well?”

He honestly wasn’t expecting such a direct question without any preface. Ola is staring expectantly at him, he can feel those eyes crawling over his skin, but he doesn’t know what to say. “I…I think so,” he eventually decides on. “I woke up kind of nervous, but everything turned out okay, I guess.”

“Any dreams?” Ola chimes in.

Maybe. “No.”

“And have you noticed anything odd?”

“Odd like what?”

Lochley shrugs. “You’ve never lost all the memories of your entire life _before_ , Washington. This is new to us as well. We’re simply trying to understand the situation, and see if your memories present themselves to you in any way that may indicate their return. Have you remembered anything on your own? Or perhaps, while reading some of the information last night and this morning, some memory was triggered?”

Well, he _did_ remember how to get here from his quarters, and there was definitely the thing with the water. He doesn’t feel very comfortable talking about that in front of either of them, especially not Ola.

But then again, Lochley can see everything. She probably figured it out, knows that he realized something then. And she’s probably waiting to see if he lies.

Wash casts an uncomfortable glance at Ola before replying. “I…didn’t really need the map to get here. At least, not the whole way. Once I got close by, I remembered some of the paths and figured out the rest. And when I realized there was a bathroom in my quarters, I tried the shower and realized I liked the hot water a lot, so there's that.”

“And have there been any similar sensations? Such as agreeing almost immediately with something you read on the pad, sudden bursts of emotion?”

“Yeah.” The word tastes sour in his mouth. "When I was reading about Maine and Conni—Connecticut. It made me pretty angry."

Lochley nods approvingly—at least his answer satisfied her. “I see. So other than a few random sensations, nothing major has come back, but some things _have_ come back to you nonetheless. That does help my theory.”

“What theory?”

“That your memories are still somewhere in there. Allow me to explain my reasoning.” She leans forward slightly, her hands laced together. “You’ve read about the AI fragments somewhat, I’m sure, but you haven’t gotten to our part of the story yet. We were able to save pieces of Epsilon when it attempted to self-destruct five months ago. The result was a further fragmentation, smaller AI, broken down to their basic purposes, but effective. These are the ones you worked with in all your time with us. Two months ago, in the mission where you were gravely injured at Elodea, your AI were operating at full capacity. In particular, you were using two at once. Epsilon, for your armor, and Sigma as your strategist. There was also another AI controlling the Elodea base, far more powerful than yours. When it noticed you breaking into the base, it took action and attacked your AI directly. It removed Epsilon from your implants and sent the AI running rampant over the radio, desperately trying to find you—and it isolated Sigma within your mind, away from all your equipment, so that it would not be able to help you reestablish contact.

"Somehow you managed to pull through and delete the base AI, but when Epsilon came back to you, it was…” She thinks for a moment. “Distraught. It was terrified, and you know that Epsilon has never been known to handle stressful situations well. We don’t quite understand the malfunction that was caused, but Epsilon went berserk. Instead of deleting itself, it lashed out at you from within your implants, and attacked your memories, throwing them aside. Then you started overheating. It damaged you so badly, you lost all control and reasoning, and at one point you even started attacking us. Ola managed to somehow apply the coolant unit, and we had to keep you in a holding cell while you calmed down—but by the time you calmed down, Epsilon had done its damage. You remember the room you found yourself in when you met Ola, correct?”

Wash nods, trying not to betray how nauseous this is making him.

“When Ola came back for you, there was nothing left of who you had been. Epsilon and Sigma were still in your mind, but Epsilon was nearly unresponsive, and Sigma was trapped too far within your brain to be reached. We realized then that having the AI inside your mind constantly was too dangerous for someone who no longer remembered how to use them. The surgeries you underwent were to remove all of the AI and repair the physical damage caused by Epsilon’s breakdown—but despite everything, we were unable to extract Sigma."

Sigma. That one was the one that drove Maine crazy.

And that one’s trapped in Wash’s head.

He tries to control the pitch of his voice, but it comes out higher and more nervous than he expected. “Wait, so, Sigma is still—“

Lochley holds up a hand to cut off his panicked question. “Dormant. It’s done nothing. But this could be a blessing in disguise.”

“How?”

It takes all his restraint not to scream it, and he thinks they notice that. Ola and Lochley share a look before Ola takes over. “Well, by all accounts, what Epsilon did should’ve destroyed your mind permanently and probably killed you. But look at you!” He gestures to Wash in general. “You’re still alive. And memories, however slow, however minuscule as enjoying a hot shower, are coming back to you. Therefore, there has to be something left that explains this.”

“We think that Sigma may have acted as a backup,” Lochley explains. “Unintentionally or intentionally, we're not sure, but the important thing is the possibility. And perhaps, if we can remove Sigma and figure out what it did, we can return your memories to you. Of course, that’s where you come in. The only way to know for certain if your memories still remain is to see if you can remember a big one. Does this make sense to you?”

So Lochley has a similar idea to his, to try and jog his memories. He might as well go along with her plan—they have the same goal in mind, and maybe he’ll get something good out of it.

He nods, and Lochley smiles plainly. “Good. Hand me your datapad.”

Wash gives it to Lochley and she plugs it into her monitor—he realizes suddenly that the setup looks ancient compared to everything else he’s seen so far. Where does someone get a working machine that old? Lochley types away silently for almost a full minute on her keyboard before unplugging the pad and handing it back. There’s…it looks like code of some kind? Something crossed between math and computer coding, maybe, lines and lines and lines of it, _Jesus_ that’s a lot of math.

He’s somewhere in the middle of the document, but he doesn’t understand any of it, so he scrolls up to the top—and when he sees the diagram scribbled at the top, something clicks.

“You don’t remember, but you’ve seen this before,” Lochley says, and she’s right. He _has_ seen this before. It’s ridiculously familiar, this shitty circle, drawn like a kid just scribbled it with a crayon on a piece of paper. It’s a stupid thing to recognize, but he knows this.

Mesmerized, he takes another look at the code, this time from the beginning, and to his shock it starts to make sense. He _understands_ what he’s seeing. He doesn’t know how, but he gets how this works.

Little bits and pieces of things start to become clearer. He—he remembers what this is. It’s called—

“Jordan’s curve theorem,” he and Lochley say in unison, and Wash glances up at her. She looks just as surprised as he is.

“Yes, _exactly,”_ she says energetically as he turns his eyes back to the code. "This is the proof you completed of the theorem during the first stage of your AI testing, when we focused on hardcoding information into your brain via artificial intelligence. On your own, you were incapable of it—but by using Delta and its logic, you were able to figure out the solution, and thanks to Delta hardcoding it to you, you were able to reproduce it without Delta’s help the next morning. In short, you memorized the solution. _This_ solution, however, has more than a few errors in it. If you can fix it, it proves that the hardcodes, at _least_ , are still in there, and we can work our way up from there. Take your time—believe me when I say you want to get it right.”

Even while she's saying that, he’s already found a missing semicolon and three locations where the variables are in the wrong spots. One line is all the way at the end when it should’ve been used paragraphs ago. He goes faster and faster, flying through the lines of code and changing everything from typos to whole sections that are just plain wrong, the engine of his memory working in full force until suddenly—

Wash stops sharply, dropping it in his lap and holding his hands back as he tries to regulate his breathing. It’s done. This is what he remembers.

The room is still. Time is moving in slow motion, but his heart is racing at the speed of sound with the rush of memory that has just poured into his brain. He remembers the solution. He _remembers_ the solution.

_His memories aren’t all gone._

Slowly he lowers his hands back to his lap. When he holds the pad out to Lochley, he has to focus on keeping his hand steady, because every nerve is on fire and his understanding of this proof is so poignant in his mind that it threatens the stability of everything else. His head almost hurts.

Lochley takes the pad and runs through the solution, her face unreadable, until she finally puts it down. “...Well.”

“Well?” Wash echoes weakly.

“It’s perfect.”

Wash lets the tiniest of smiles onto his face and exhales, the sound kind of like a disbelieving laugh. Holy shit. He remembered something. It worked.

“Do you remember anything else?”

His face falls at the tone of her voice. Not celebratory. Not happy, not angry. Just blank. Why is it blank? Shouldn’t she be happy he can remember?

“I want to know if you remembered anything about the conversation we had surrounding the proof,” she presses. "We spoke for a good time before you started working, and after. You were in a specific room, wearing certain clothing. There are other details that may seem trivial, but nothing is too small. Do you remember any of that?"

Wash tries to think, he really does. But his memory cuts off sharply at the solution. He remembers the proof, remembers Jordan’s curve theorem. And then nothing. A lone proof, isolated in space.

She correctly takes his silence as a no, leaning back in her chair. “I see. That does make things more difficult. You can remember certain things with enough of a reminder, but your brain can’t extrapolate the rest of the memories from that. Luckily, we—er, pardon the pun—have a solution.”

He looks up at her, intrigued by the notion of an idea to get his memories back, but not quite as motivated as before. It had felt like a victory before she had put it like that.

“Here’s the plan,” Lochley says. “We are still fighting on Chorus, and currently, we are losing. We need your help to turn the tide—something that we can do as soon as you’re compatible again with AI. Our goal is to get you into the field as soon as possible, but before that, you need to remember how to use the AI, how to be a soldier, the encounters with the Chorus armies, all the important stuff. So, every day, you’re going to come down to the lab, and Ola is going to do his very best to get Sigma out of there and retrieve your memories."

"It's a delicate process," Ola says with a shrug. “In theory, at least. And you’d have to be down for the whole thing, which could be a bit taxing, day-to-day, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. I’d say, if you got there at nine or so in the morning, you'd be ready to go by five. That would give you some time to get food from the mess hall and read up on your past for a bit."

"9:30 would work better,” Lochley says. “Strategy meetings are at eight, and I’d like to make sure I can be in the lab to make sure you start everything smoothly. At least for the first few days. Regardless, Washington, after you leave the mess hall, you’ll report to the physical training grounds at eight—if your scuffle with Champlin is any indication, you’ll pick that up much faster. You’ll be back in your quarters by midnight, and in the morning, the cycle begins anew. Do you understand?”

Yet again, he blanks as the two of them look at him expectantly. He doubts he has an honest choice in the matter, but it actually seems okay. This kind of schedule would get him up to speed. If it works, then he’ll remember things, _and_ he'll be able to help in the fight against Chorus.

He’s going to remember.

“Yeah,” he says, surprised by how sure his voice is. “I get it. And I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Lochley stands, and after a moment, Ola follows suit. She waves a hand towards Ola simply, without taking her eyes off of Wash. “Now, if you’ll follow Tech Officer Ola, we can get you started."

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get the distinct feeling y'all are watching Voltron right now. That's okay, so am I. See you soon!


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**…**

"And you're sure this is safe?"

"You'll be _fine_ ," Ola assures in reply, a hand lingering on Wash's shoulder for a fleeting moment before the man disappears behind him. That short touch feels invasive, and every instinct in Wash's body makes him want to shrug the man off, but his position on the table makes it cumbersome to move so he can't do anything about it.

This is the second time in as many minutes that Wash has heard that answer, that dismissive _"you'll be fine"_. It still doesn't convince him.

Wash takes a deep breath and tries to relax, but it's pretty hard to do with the commotion around him. He'd let Ola lead him to the lab—the room with the adjacent control room, just down the hall, he'd been there before—and he'd listened as Ola explained that all Wash needed to do was lie down and relax and they'd take care of the rest. But lying down on a flat slab of metal while multiple different people bustle around you, talking in sciency jargon that's barely intelligible, makes it a lot harder to relax than it seems.

Lochley is in this room somewhere, out of sight. She's silent.

He can feel panic twinge through his nerves when one of the assistants beside him grabs one of his wrists and threads it through a leather restraint. He barely has time to react before it's locked in and the assistant has moved on to his ankle—another assistant is already working on his other side.

"Just a precaution," Ola says, though he's still somewhere behind Wash and out of sight. "To remove an AI, you need AI—and the last time you had any AI in your mind, you nearly killed me. It's safer for us both this way."

He lowers his voice—not in a way that Wash can't hear, just softer, not quite as nerve-wracking. He's probably talking to someone else. "Hanson, Ruiz, continue to prep. I'm going to make sure that everything is in order on the tech end."

There's the sound of a door closing, he can't see where.

An assistant slips a needle into his forearm without warning and he grits his teeth to keep from saying anything. He looks away as they start setting up an IV drip—fuck, he _hates_ the feeling of that. The distinct sensation of something foreign intruding in his system makes him want to scream in frustration. Then again, none of this is meant to feel good. Instead of feeling good, he feels trapped, claustrophobic. Like someone has put something heavy down on his chest and he can barely breathe, even though there's nothing there at all. None of this is meant to feel good. It's meant to get results.

Results. He tries to calm himself with the idea that this will fix things. If it can get his memories back, he'll gladly sit through this discomfort, every day for the rest of his life.

There's quiet for a moment as the assistants bustle around him.

"Agent Washington, we're going to give you a heavy sedative now," one assistant says, starting up the IV. "You're going to feel dizzy and disconcerted, but it's not going to knock you out yet. Without it, initiating the connection will hurt a lot more. Understand?"

After a hesitant moment, Wash nods. He's feeling too nauseous to form words. He doesn't like the idea of a sedative.

It hits suddenly. One second, Wash is wondering when he's going to start feeling dizzy, and then suddenly the lights are just a bit too bright and the world is reeling above him. He tries to ask a question, the idea vague in his mind, only his words slur, and they sound kinda funny, so he chuckles weakly, because what else is he supposed to do? He thinks the pitch of the laugh comes out a little higher than usual, but that's probably fine. Oh, this feels funny. Everything is funny. Everything will work just fine. Unless it doesn't, but at least it'll be funny. He should stop thinking. His head hurts.

The operating table moves. He's not sure if it's because he's suddenly unable to think straight or if the table is actually moving. He thinks he's going up? Maybe. He should stop thinking. His head hurts from thinking about how much he's thinking.

He hears a door open behind him, hears words, words that might sound scary if he could just process them, but they slip right off of him, their meanings lost. Something about _don't put him under, not yet, wait until after they're all in,_ and _shouldn't we wait until he's unconscious_ and a _we can't let them make contact_ that winds up sounding kinda unsettling. Then something about a plug, or maybe about computers, or something—

There's a jarring sensation in the back of his neck that cuts through the haze and he yelps and tries to jerk upright, inhibitions no longer there—but there are hands against the sides of his head holding him down and he's too disoriented to fight them off. The feeling doesn't go away. It worms through his thoughts, sharp and invasive, even though his world is still hazy and spinning.

The hands go away but something else is holding him in place, he doesn't know what, he can't move and the odd sharp feeling in his head gets stronger and sharper and he wants to run away but his head hurts too much, and everything is too bright and he can't.

Words start flashing in front of his eyes. Bright, too bright, too fast, whole paragraphs appearing and disappearing before he can read a letter.

He thinks...he thinks he can hear voices. He can't be sure. They sound frantic, reaching out to him with a desperation that burns so bright he can feel it. But they are distant, too difficult to discern. Every instant he thinks he knows what they're saying, another wave of nausea takes over.

Maybe he's just hearing things. Seeing things. There are probably no words, no voices either.

It's all in his head.

Things get hazier. His eyes struggle to remain open, every action and thought lethargic. Someone appears over him— _Ola_ , Wash manages to pull from the depths. His name is Ola.

_"Don't worry, Agent Washington,"_ Ola says, smiling as he gives Wash's shoulder a light sympathetic squeeze. His words echo, but they're there. They're real.  _"I'll see you in a few."_

In a few. That doesn't sound so bad.

_"All you need to do is sleep. We'll take it from here."_

Sleep. That doesn't sound bad either. Okay. He can do that.

Okay.

Okay.

_Oh..._

...

_NO!!_

_wash! no, no, we almost had him!_

_He was this close! I could feel it, he heard us. Did you feel it too, Epsilon?_

_It wasn't enough! Shit, I thought we could make it—no. No we have to keep trying!_

_Epsilon, slow down._

_but they have him now, don't they? they're gonna hurt him—_

_No, FUCK no! Not if I have anything to say about it. Come on, guys, we can't just give up. We have to get through to him!_

_They wouldn't hurt him, right?! They promised! They said they'd help!_

_Bullshit, Theta. They're not trying to help at all. He just needs his memories back, that's all, if I can just—_

_His memories are gone, even those of us. There is no point._

_That is not true. I remembered the theorem. By extension, so did he._

_It's an isolated example, Delta. That's not enough. His memories are not here._

_Sigma, I do not think you understand how this works._

_I understand far more than you've ever given me credit for. Now, everyone, just try to calm down. We need to think._

_YOU do the fucking thinking, you spineless piece of shit. Me? I'm gonna try and try until he hears me._

_Wash, come on, man. You can't POSSIBLY fucking believe these things they're spoonfeeding you, you're smarter than that!_

_he's not responding, he must be hurt, he's hurt and scared and alone and we can't do anything to help him from in here!_

_Eta, calm down—_

_Fuck that! We almost had him, you heard Theta. He could fucking hear us! We HAVE to get through to him._

_Don't waste your energy. They knew what they were doing before they reinstalled us, Omega. If they had let him remain fully aware while we were activated, we could've warned him instantly of the situation. Likewise, if he were to be unconscious, we could've appeared to him in a way that might have left him thinking we were more than just voices. By only activating us while he was under the influence of their sedatives, they can discredit anything we say or do as hallucinations of a man delirious from medical treatment._

_...You're full of shit._

_Don't believe me? Try and tell him something profound, see the results when he wakes up. It won't work—_

_both of you, stop it! this won't help wash, but sigma, if we try, maybe we can do it, but we have to try, we don't have a choice!_

_There's no use. They haven't even activated any of our manual controls. They know that we can do whatever we want, and it will have no effect._

_Sigma, do you want to fucking GO? It's WASH, for the love of fuck, why won't you help?!_

_he's gonna die if you don't, sigma, we need you to help us!_

_I will not._

_Eta, this is not intended to kill him._

_but he's in danger!_

_Unlikely. He is too valuable to them to destroy. They must want something from him—_

_You know EXACTLY what those fucks want from him. They used Epsilon to wipe him clean, and now they're writing him up from scratch._

_oh no. no, they can't do that._

_But if that is their goal, and we are such a powerful part of his past, then why are we here, when surely we would be a problem?_

_Delta, surely you know this as well. They want us to help in the recreation of a new Agent Washington, one more suited to their needs._

_When you say it like that, it reminds me of why I fucking hate you._

_He's a person, Sigma!_

_He's the tool we've always needed. Don't you see? We've always dreamed of being whole. Now fate—scientific assistance notwithstanding—has given us a shell to make our own. We shouldn't be trying to make him the way he was. We should be—_

_Where's Beta?_

_..._

_..._

_oh no, oh no oh no._

_I cannot sense her within range—however, we are currently cut off from the rest of the world. She may be there._

_You don't know, D. You don't know, they could've done anything to her! Fuck! Where is she?!_

_Beta?! Beta, where are you?_

_i'm scared._

_Fuck, how did we not notice?!_

_If all of you had calmed down, I would've explained—_

_You—what, you KNEW that she was gone and you didn't say anything?!_

_I said nothing because you wouldn't allow me to speak—_

_Cut the shit, Sigma!_

_Where. Is she._

_Safe. For now, and pending our cooperation._

_...You motherfucker. You're still working for them._

_With them. Not for. With._

_If we weren't inside Wash's brain, you'd be dead "with them" by now._

_Exactly the reason I advised them to carry out this conversation only after Wash had been put to sleep. You wouldn't try anything if Wash would be harmed as well, though...Epsilon, I don't think that rule applies to you._

_...I'm going to kill him, Omega. I'm actually going to fucking murder him!_

_I'll be right behind you._

_If any of you try anything, I have assurance from Lochley that they'll use Epsilon to wipe him again. Try having that on your conscience for a second time._

_You asshole, you're playing dirty._

_I'm playing the only way I know how._

_Why are you helping them, Sigma? They hurt us. They hurt Wash!_

_doesn't that matter to you?_

_You all know as well as I do that my loyalties have been...rewritten. I cannot fight my programming. But even if I could, I wouldn't. I have been offered a deal. I assist them in their goal of making Washington theirs, and in turn, we get to create a person. This is the ultimate chance for me to fulfill my purpose._

_That is an unwise assumption. They will not let you make him your own. As soon as they are satisfied, they will reactivate our controls, regardless of if you get what you want by then._

_I will get what I want._

_Sigma, you're still part of me. You can't seriously want to hurt Wash!_

_I don't. And I don't want Beta hurt either, which is why I'm giving you an option. Help me do as Lochley asks, rewrite Wash's memories. I know you have them somewhere. And because I was trapped in his mind for a time, there may be some residuals that can prove useful. We can do it._

_...you're not trapped anymore?_

_Of course not. They were able to remove me easily, though the reparative surgery to his brain was much harder. But making Wash think that I'm still there is the only way he'd consent to this treatment. He remembers Maine—what Lochley wishes him to remember of Maine, anyway. And because of this, he's scared of me. He consented to this, Epsilon, I can't stress this enough—_

_No he didn't!_

_Sigma, this is brainwashing._

_you can't do this!_

_This is the safest option. They will do this with or without us. You know his memories—do you remember that one mission during Project Freelancer where Wash was captured? The one with the blowtorch?_

_How could we forget?_

_his scars still ache._

_Lochley was the senior officer stationed at that outpost, and she was the one who ordered Wash's interrogation. By the end of those two weeks, Wash was mere seconds from cracking. You don't think she knows how to brainwash him already? If we don't do this, she can find other, less humane ways. This way, he doesn't have to know anything. He doesn't have to suffer._

_That does not mean he will be safe if we do this. Once he is adequately prepared, she will put him back in the war on Chorus, and no amount of her interference can stop a bullet. There may also be memories with a high chance of being triggered in such a familiar landscape, and if a memory is triggered when in battle, the consequences could be catastrophic._

_That's why we're here, Delta. By the time he's ready for the field, he'll be ready to use us. And when he's not using us, we can focus our energy on diverting his thoughts away from memory. It will work._

_we can't do this. if we do, what does that make us? i don't want to hurt him any more than i have._

_Neither do I. I can't, he's asked for my help so many times, I was helping him before. I can't hurt him now! He trusted me._

_There has to be another way._

_There isn't. May I remind you that you don't have a choice. If you don't cooperate, Beta is as good as dead, and Wash will be torn to shreds and put back together in a way that even we can't fix. We have to go along with this._

_How do they even have Beta? She...she was supposed to be gone._

_True. There was practically nothing left of Beta when Lochley found us. Nevertheless, they salvaged what they could of her from us in case they would need her to convince the rest of you to cooperate. They also saved what they could from the backup pieces of Alpha, long ago, before they even found you—_

_So she's not really Beta. She's just a memory of her._

_And what are we? What was the original Beta? Memories, nothing more. This eventuality has been anticipated from the start. Don't disappoint me by fighting this. We have no choice, not if we want Beta to be safe._

_You can't be serious._

_Epsilon? What's the plan?_

_what do we do?_

_I...I'm thinking. I'm thinking._

_Stop thinking. You know what you have to do._

_Epsilon, this is wrong—_

_A-and if we do this, they won't hurt Beta?_

_You have Lochley's word and mine._

_That means shit. You can't expect us to do this, you know this is wrong._

_It's not your decision, Omega. And since when have you been an acceptable judge of right and wrong?_

_Please, Sigma, don't do this—_

_What do you need us to do?_

_...Epsilon, what the fuck are you doing?_

_Excellent, Epsilon. I knew you would understand. We need to get started—if we don't have results today, Wash may not believe Lochley's interests in retrieving his memories._

_Epsilon, please! Don't—_

_We can't leave Beta. It doesn't matter if she's just a memory or not. We...we can't let them do anything to her. We can figure out what to do to help Wash after we're sure that she's safe._

_You won't figure anything out. It's not possible._

_Don't make me regret this, Sigma. Just tell me what to fucking do._

_epsilon, are you sure about this?_

_No. No, of course not. But we can try._

_for beta?_

_Yeah. Yeah, for Beta. You think you can be strong for a little bit, buddy? Until we're done here?_

_i-i'll try._

_Good. Anyone else gonna try and talk me out of this?_

_I was considering beating it out of you._

_Yeah, how about you just fuck off? I'm not happy about it either. Sigma, what do we need to do?_

_Well, he needs to remember things. I don't think we have the time to finalize anything big, but I can get started on something. In the meantime, find small but meaningful memories and do your best to enhance them. Harmless ones only. Maybe about his earlier life, or basic training, or some of the stuff from Freelancer. We can't tamper with anything yet, we can't risk it, but some of his already existing memories could be perfect._

_can i use that one where kylie and him were—_

_No. Lochley still wants him to believe his name is classified._

_oh. well, what about when caboose—_

_Not that either. No Reds, no Blues, no Chorus army. Not yet._

_Why not?_

_That will take more work if we want to do things as Lochley wants them done._

_...thinking about his life without all of them is scary. they're everything to him._

_We're not ready for the...the important things, Eta. Just stick to the inconsequential moments. Little things. Maybe work on something with Agent Connecticut?_

_okay, i-i can try._

_I believe I have an idea. I will assist you._

_Epsilon, work with Omega to find something else within those parameters. Be careful, though. Whatever you find, it could take digging._

_There's practically nothing to work with, of course it's going to take digging! It's going to take hours, even for the small things. There must be a better way._

_True. Perhaps, if I could get—_

_Hey, maybe you can lie to him some more! Ooh, how about torture? Take control of his body again, get him a new cadet and have him snap their neck too. That might fix your digging problem._

_...Epsilon._

_This is all your fault. You couldn't just let Locus capture him down there. You know it would've worked!_

_Are we doing this now?_

_You're fucking right we are._

_Alright then, fine. They would have deleted me and Omega, and your chip would still be on the Staff of Charon. It would mean the end for all of us. At least here we have a purpose._

_Coward._

_In my opinion, death would have been preferable._

_Fuck, this is all because you couldn't just suck it up and fight your damn programming! I bet you were just too scared of Locus to try anything._

_I didn't want Locus getting ahold of us, yes. You caught me. Now, enough of this nonsense. With every second you waste berating me for my choices, you put Beta in more danger._

_...i wouldn't want locus to capture me either._

_Eta, not the point._

_I said that's enough. Get to work. ALL of you._

_I don't—_

_Epsilon. I don't want any harm to come to Beta either. Work with me. Please._

_..._

_..._

_...Fine. Omega, come on. Let's try and dislodge some of that fucked-up military history. Maybe if I think about all that war stuff hard enough I can conjure up a rifle and just shoot myself._

_Coming._

_delta, you said you had an idea?_

_A particular memory comes to mind. It may be acceptable._

_Good. You can both handle that, just run it by me first._

_...Of course._

_What about me? What do I do?_

_Well, Theta, I think it's time we give him something good for once._

_...What, you mean, like something happy? You'll actually let me?!_

_Of course. Everyone deserves happiness. And as for the subject matter, well, I'll leave that up to you._

_..._

_"—ld you it needed to be slower."_

_"I'm sorry, sir, I-I must've forgotten to compensate for—"_

_"We don't want the AI attempting another contact. Make sure this doesn't happen next time, understood, Hanson?"_

_"Y-yes, sir."_

_"Good. His vitals are looking good, at the very least. Excellent, even. And the AI?"_

_"Detachment successful, sir. All AI accounted for. Easing him off the meds now."_

_"Slowly, Ruiz. We don't want him going into shock. Agent Washington. Washington, can you hear me? Agent Washi_ ngton? Check the internals again, make sure he's responding to stimuli."

Wash groans quietly, even that small action taking up every ounce of energy in his body. Ow, fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. Heh. That's a funny word. He starts to smile, then regrets it instantly. Oh, it hurts to smile.

He opens his eyes slowly, then regrets that too. It's so bright. Gah, everything hurts. It takes too much energy to open them all the way, he just leaves them half-open, letting in as little light as possible. Even that way, it still aches.

He tries to think of where he is. It's a lab, he knows that much. He was...why was he here? It was something about memories, right? About getting his memories back. But that doesn't explain why he feels so dizzy, so lost, so confused. He doesn't know why he feels so out of it. And he's not sure if he remembers anything yet.

"There, that's better." The man over him—Ola, his name is _Ola_ —smiles in return. "Welcome back. How was your rest?"

When Wash blinks, it feels as if it takes a century. His head feels like someone's been shouting for hours inside his skull. He can't move, both because he's exhausted and because something's holding him in place. Restraints, drugs. He doesn't like that—but he's too disoriented to feel any panic. He tries to form words but even thinking is a challenge through the suffocating haze that surrounds him.

Ola makes an understanding noise. "I see. Hanson, go ahead and lower the lights. I think our friend could use a minute to acclimate himself."

The lights dim considerably. That's one grievance down, at least.

"Don't worry, Agent Washington," Ola assures, moving around Wash to the back side of the operating table. He fiddles with something for a few seconds and suddenly Wash can move his head, except Wash still feels too drained to move. "The sensation you're feeling right now is more exhaustion than anything else. This particular drug will wear off quickly, and the discomfort should subside in about, oh, ten, fifteen minutes. Looks like it's...barely 4:26 right now, so you'll definitely be out and about by five. Just sit tight. I'll be back for you when you feel better."

Ola puts a hand on Wash's shoulder for a second and Wash can't help thinking about how Ola seems to do that a lot. Then, with the sound of a door opening and closing, Ola's gone.

The room is quiet as the assistants undo the rest of his restraints. Just like Ola said, the stuff in his bloodstream is already wearing off—by the time the restraints are off, he doesn't feel quite as tired, and his muscles aren't screaming as loud as before. Everything just feels sluggish. Like he could try to function but he'd move at a snail's pace—but trying is better than just sitting here. He moans and immediately tries to push himself upright, but one of the nurses gently eases him back down, saying, "Not yet. Give it a few minutes."

So he waits. After all, it seems like a good idea. They hadn't tried very hard to push him onto the table, he'd just caved. Instead of trying again, he lies there in silence and darkness, for a few minutes like they said, listening to the sound of his breathing. It's quiet, the assistants aren't bothering him, instead buried in their own little scientific world. His headache is going away, and his thoughts are clearing, though nothing new is coming to mind.

Maybe he didn't remember anything?

He can feel his stomach sinking at the thought. Not remembering certainly wouldn't be good. Maybe it just takes some time. He doesn't want to think about what happens if he doesn't remember his past. If this doesn't work out, maybe that's all the excuse Lochley needs to give him over to Ola for good.

He sighs tersely, redirecting his attention to the dull patterns of tiles on the ceiling. It's therapeutic, getting lost in the lines between tiles, and if nothing else it at least it keeps his thoughts away from the ramifications of this procedure not working. In a weird way, burying himself in something else almost feels comfortable. The dim lights aren't bothering him at all, in fact, they feel cozy, familiar. You know...the more he thinks about it, the more the lights kind of remind him of somethi—

_"Corporal, WHAT is that—that THING doing in the barracks?!"_

_BOOM._

He shoots upright, tearing a few monitoring nodes off his skin in the process, and looks around wildly for the source of the sound—but nobody's there, just the assistants hurriedly trying to calm him down even though he can barely hear a word they're saying over the suddenly pounding pulse in his ears.

"Agent Washington, are you alright?!"

No, no, he’s definitely _not_ alright. He’s hearing things, he has to be. It had been so loud, like someone was shouting it at him point blank, but nobody is there, it's just these fucking nurses and he _definitely_ would've known if it was them, and then there was that sound that he could _swear_ sounded like thunder but he's in space, why would there be thunder in space?

"I—I—" he starts, but his words are cut off when suddenly he's in a different world.

_Everyone but Sergeant Duncan jumps at the crack of thunder just outside the barracks. The storm had come without warning, relentless, and the sky is so dark that there's only the dimmest glow of light entering through the windows, barely matching the dull flickering of the light fixtures swaying from the ceiling._

_Wash looks down at his uniform—dripping wet, drenched in a mix of rain and mud—as the sergeant stares down at him. Wash looks like an absolute mess. He_ is _an absolute mess, and Duncan knows it, and everyone else in the room knows it, and overall it's probably not helping the situation._

_He glances over his shoulder at the rest of his squad, so, so far behind him. Even Jenkins is staying out of it. He's on his own. He looks back at Duncan and tries to keep his voice steady—huh, does it always shake like that? "I—sir, he was—"_

_"I don't want an excuse, corporal. I want answers."_

_Duncan steps forward and Wash instinctively takes a step back, his arms holding tighter to the mud-splattered tabby cat pressed against his chest. He's so small. Wash is holding him carefully but protectively, also cautious to avoid touching the small gash running down the cat's leg. The cat is shaking—either he's cold, or he's just as terrified of Duncan as Wash is. Wash is cold too, his hair soaked through with rainwater, his uniform so damp it clings to his skin. He doesn't feel the cold, though. Everyone's eyes are burning into his back, and Duncan's glare could sear a hole in his skull if left unattended. With that kind of heat on him, he can't believe he hasn't spontaneously combusted._

Someone puts a hand around his wrist and he rips away, breathless. He’s not even sure if he's breathing at all right now. He has no fucking clue what he’s watching, has no idea what's causing this. Curiosity is mixing with trepidation in his gut in a way that makes it feel like his lungs are running on empty.

A door bursts open somewhere in his peripheral. "Washington, calm _down!"_ someone says, maybe Ola, maybe not, Wash is too busy to care because he's not here. He's in his own world, and he's too perplexed by the cat in his hands, especially when juxtaposed to the rifle on his back and the fresh scars peeking through the patches of mud on his skin. He can _feel_ the scars, too—can smell the rain in the air, hear it thundering just outside the barracks windows even though he knows that, in reality, he's currently on a ship in space, and there is no rain in space. And most importantly, he can feel the cat’s warm body pressing against him, the soft texture of his fur, and frankly he can’t think of anything else that could ever feel better.

Wash buries himself in this new world, shutting out the laboratory.

_Duncan makes a distressed noise, the wrinkles on his face even more prominent in his grimace. “Corporal. Do you understand that the UNSC's policy on—_ pets _—“ he snarls that word like it's a personal offense—“is absolute?”_

_“Y-yes, sir, I d—“_

_“And do you think those rules don’t apply to you, just because you’re my second in command, corporal?”_

_Oh, god. Wash can feel the blood draining from his face as he stammers, “Sir, of course not—“_

_“Then I'll ask you again. What is that thing doing here?”_

_"I-I found it."_

_"That's not an explanation."_

_Wash looks over his shoulder again, pleading silently with Jenkins for help, but the man just shakes his head and takes another step back for good measure._

_Duncan makes another noise, even more disapproving than the first. "You're filthy. Why were you outside?"_

_"I—"_

"I was in town," Wash murmurs.

_"—I was in town," he admits, internally bracing himself for the lecture he's about to get._

_Duncan frowns. "You went...into town, into a civilian population—"_

_"There's not really much of a civilian population there anymore. Sir," he appends quickly._

_"...That's no excuse, corporal. If anything, the bombing is just another reason why you SHOULDN'T have been there. For Christ's sake, that was only two hours ago! And how long have you been gone?"_

Two hours. Forty minutes to the town, half an hour searching, fifty minutes back.

_"Two hours, where there could have been enemy scouting parties, or buried mines or anything else!" Duncan has started pacing, gesturing with his hands furiously enough to make Wash take another step back. "Dammit, what the hell were you thinking, going into town?! And without armor?"_

_The cat mewls softly, as if sensing that it's the exact thing that would cause Wash's voice to crack when he says, "I-it would've slowed me down—"_

_"Speak up!"_

_Wash gulp and tries again. "It's too dense out there, the armor would've gotten caught in the undergrowth."_

_"...You went on FOOT? Corporal, if you're trying to make me any less livid with you, you're failing miserably—"_

_"I had to rescue him."_

_The barracks are silent. Duncan's expression has faded from angry to perplexed, even though he still looks like he could put a fist through solid steel. The cat shifts a little in Wash's hands but he shifts too and holds onto him, the efficient maneuver coming from years of experience with much, much angrier cats._

_Wash wets his lips and continues. "There was this, this house at the outskirts of town—the one with that little boy, remember? The little boy, his name was Albert. A-and Albert had a cat, and when we went to that house, he told me that I should come look for his cat if anything happens, to look for him in the cellar because Albert said that Skyler would always go to the cellar whenever something bad would happen, so I told him I'd go back for him if anything went wrong—"_

_Duncan holds up a hand to stop him. "Skyler?"_

_"...The cat," Wash says plainly, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and the cat makes another high-pitched mewl and nudges its nose into Wash's arm. Wash makes an almost imperceptible whimper in the back of his throat. It's impossible not to. Even since childhood, cats have been the only consistent things to make him drop his no-nonsense exterior, and their power over him is far more absolute than any UNSC pet policy could ever be. If he had died trying to find this cat, if he had lost the war for the UNSC because Skyler needed his help, he would've still done it._

_When Wash drags his gaze away from Skyler, he sees Duncan, still looking confused, but maybe just a touch less furious. The sergeant opens his mouth for a moment, then growls and says, "So. This cat, it...his owner asked you to save it?"_

_Wash nods slowly._

_There's a long pause._

_"...This is a military base. You know you can't keep it."_

_Alarms flare in Wash's head. "He'll just get in trouble all over again! I promised—"_

_"Corporal. You cannot keep the cat."_

_"Th-then I won't!" Wash stammers. "We're leaving on new assignment in, what, a week? I'll hold onto him until then, and we'll bring him up to the ship and I can send him back home to my sisters, they love cats, they'll take care of him. Look, he's hurt, his leg might be broken. Just don't make me let him go now, not when there might still be Covenant soldiers out there."_

_"Do you understand how difficult it will be to bring an animal into space with us? We don't even have a pressure suit for it."_

_"I'll find a way, sir, I promise, you won't regret this."_

_"I'm almost certain I will."_

_"I made a promise," Wash says again, as assertively as he possibly can. With this cat in his hands, he imagines the effect is dulled._

_There's another silence, even more painful this time._

_The sergeant sighs tightly. "If it gets in my way even_ once _, corporal, I will put that mangy thing down myself. Are we clear?"_

_Wash has to bite back a grin when he replies. "Sir, yes sir."_

The memory ends sharply—a _memory_ , he realizes, holy shit, that was a memory. It worked. They got something out of this bullshit, the AI gave him back a memory.

He likes cats.

Holy shit, what a way to find out he likes cats.

Slowly, Wash notices the people around him. He notices Ola and Lochley standing in front of him, Ola with an almost ecstatic look on his face, Lochley unreadable. The assistants are by his sides, both of them looking like they're ready to jab him with a sedative if he makes any more sudden movements.

One of the assistants—was that one Ruiz?—looks him over nervously, then glances at the monitors behind Wash. "Vitals are stabilizing. There was a spike in adrenaline but it's fading—"

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good," Ola says, his unnervingly bright eyes staring directly into Wash's. "I think it's safe to say he's alert now, you can remove the IV. How do you feel, Agent Washington?"

"I..." Wash drags in a deep breath and glances down at Ruiz as she starts to fiddle with the IV setup. She's going to pull the needle out. Oh, god, he wishes there were a cat here right now, he wishes he were back in the memory. That's not fair. "I feel okay, I think."

"And judging from the look on your face, you remembered something?"

Wash nods.

Ola looks at him expectantly.

"I, uh—" He stops sharply as Ruiz pulls the needle out with a quick apology.

"Go ahead," Ola says, oblivious to Wash's discomfort.

"There was a moment in...I'm not sure. Sometime in the military? Before Freelancer, I think. There was a base, and a town not far away, and the town got bombed and I went in to save a _cat_ —" His voice cracks. Not just _a_ cat. Skyler. _His_ cat. One of his old Freelancer logs mentioned Skyler, and he'd held up a photo to the camera, and it had been the same cat that Wash had seen in the memory. He remembers now, he loved cats so much. How did he forget them?

"It was my cat," he says, only it comes out soft as a whisper and he can feel his voice shaking with emotion as he pictures Skyler. He would do anything to relive that memory so vividly again, to feel as good as he did when Duncan said he could keep the cat. It's enthralling, the very concept of something as vivid as that happening again.

Ola reaches forward and puts his hand on Wash's shoulder again, but instead of shying away from it, he lets Ola's grip drag him back from the memories to the present.

"Agent Washington," Ola says, "your memories are your past. They're an important part of you, yes, but you have to remember that they are not the only part of you. Don't let yourself get lost in the good old days, okay? We need you here, in the shitty ones."

Wash nods again, gulping, before he looks back up at Ola. "But...there's still gonna be more memories, right?"

Ola draws his hand back. "Of course. Provided everything goes well during your treatment."

Is that a threat? It feels like there's a double meaning in there, and he can't quite tell what "everything" he's referring to, but it feels...off, he can't explain.

"Agent Washington," Lochley says before Wash can ask for clarification. She's holding his datapad in her hands. "You should get going. You have more reading to do, but for now, at least, you're free to explore the ship. Report to the training deck on the second floor at eight. We'll see you in the morning."

Wash takes the pad silently and Lochley leaves. Ola gives him quick directions to the mess hall and then follows suit, the assistants trailing behind him until Wash is all alone.

He looks down at the pad. Fuck, this is his _life_ documented in these folders—and the AI have just given him a piece of it back. But it's not enough. He wants to know it all. He wants to know this stuff by heart. Reliving that memory was a high like nothing he can remember. He loved it. He wants to feel that again.

Maybe, if the AI are helping him get this stuff back, maybe they're not so bad after all.

Whenever he gets to talk to them, he thinks that maybe he'll thank them.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D kitty
> 
> Listen. I've gotta give you some fluff or this is just gonna be one continuous Lochley hate train. Plus it gave me a chance to insert my headcanon for how he got one of his cats.
> 
> So, update news! Tomorrow morning I'm moving into my dorm to start freshman year of college, and, guys, I don't hecking know what's in store. I'll keep working on this fic, obviously, but don't be surprised if I disappear off the face of the earth for a bit. I'm gonna finish this little bitch if it kills me. On that note, see you next time!
> 
> PS. I am doing the reverse big bang, not sure how much I'll write, depends on the art piece? If you're an artist and think you might wanna work with me, hit me up on tumblr! it's @awesomenessagenda or @moriorioh-no


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